i 

v^Zi 


By- 
NORMAN  DUNCAN 


Fleming  H.Revell  Company 
Publishers 


912731 


ContenitS 


BY  PROXY        .         .    * 

•         • 

9 

THE  RIVER     . 

. 

•       23 

A  GARDEN  OF  LIES 

.     • 

•       34 

THE  CELEBRITY  IN  LOVE   . 

49 

AT  MIDNIGHT       . 

• 

64 

A  MEETING  BY  CHANCE      . 

.       82 

RENUNCIATION    . 

.       94 

IN  THE  CURRENT 

.     no 

THE  CHORISTER  . 

123 

ALIENATION . 

.     138 

A  CHILD'S  PRAYER 

155 

MR.  PODDLE'S  FINALE 
HIS  MOTHER 
NEARING  THE  SEA     . 
THE  LAST  APPEAL      . 


IT  will  be  recalled  without  effort — 
possibly,  indeed,  without  interest — 
that  the  obsequies  of  the  old  Senator 
Boligand  were  a  distinguished  success  : 
a  fashionable,  proper  function,  ordered 
by  the  young  widow  with  exquisite 
taste,  as  all  the  world  said,  and  con- 
ducted without  reproach,  as  the  under- 
taker and  the  clergy  very  heartily 
agreed.  At  the  Church  of  the  Lifted 
Cross,  the  incident  of  the  child,  the 
9 


lo        T  HE.     MOTHER 

blond^' lady  .and- the  mysteriously  veiled 
mail,' who  s^t  in  awe  and  bewildered 
amazement  where  the  shadows  gave 
deepest  seclusion,  escaped  notice.  Not 
that  the  late  Senator  Boligand  was  in 
life  aware  of  the  existence  of  the  child 
or  the  lady  or  the  strange  fellow  with 
the  veil.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  The 
one  was  the  widow  of  Dick  Slade,  the 
other  his  son,  born  in  wedlock ;  and 
the  third  was  the  familiar  counsellor 
and  intimate  of  them  all.  The  Senator 
was  for  once  turned  to  good  account : 
was  made  contributor  to  the  sweetness 
of  life,  to  the  comfort  of  the  humble. 
That  was  all.  And  I  fancy  that  the 
shade  of  the  grim  old  robber,  lurking 
somewhere  in  the  softly  coloured  gloom 
of  the  chancel,  was  not  altogether 
averse  to  the  farce  in  which  his  earthly 
tabernacle  was  engaged.  .  .  . 


BY        PROXY  II 

When  Dick  Slade  died  in  the  big  red 
tenement  of  Box  Street,  he  died  as 
other  men  die,  complaining  of  the 
necessity ;  and  his  son,  in  the  way  of 
all  tender  children,  sorely  wept :  not 
because  his  father  was  now  lost  to  him, 
which  was  beyond  his  comprehension, 
but  because  the  man  must  be  put  in  a 
grave — a  cold  place,  dark  and  suffocat- 
ing, being  underground,  as  the  child 
had  been  told. 

^'  I  don^t  want  my  father,",  he  woe- 
fully protested,  *'  to  be  planted  !  " 

"  Planted  I  "  cried  the  mother,  throw- 
ing up  her  hands  in  indignant  denial. 
"  Who  told  you  he'd  be  planted?  " 

"  Madame  Lacara." 

"  She's  a  liar,"  said  the  woman,  com- 
posedly, without  resentment.  *' We'll 
cut  the  planting  out  of  this  funeral." 
Her  ingenuity,  her  resourcefulness,  her 


12        THE        MOTHER 

daring,  when  the  happiness  of  her  child 
was  concerned,  were  usually  sufficient 
to  the  emergency.  "  Why,  darling !  " 
she  exclaimed.  '*  Your  father  will  be 
taken  right  up  into  the  sky.  He  won't 
be  put  in  no  grave.  He'll  go  right 
straight  to  a  place  where  it's  all  sun- 
shine— where  it's  all  blue  and  high  and 
as  bright  as  day."  She  bustled  about : 
keeping  an  eye  alert  for  the  effect  of 
her  promises.  She  was  not  yet  sure 
how  this  glorious  ascension  might  be 
managed  ;  but  she  had  never  failed  to 
deceive  him  to  his  own  contentment, 
and  'twas  not  her  habit  to  take  faint- 
hearted measures.  ''They  been  lying 
to  you,  dear,"  she  complained.  "  Don't 
you  fret  about  graves.  You  just  wait," 
she  concluded,  significantly,  "  and 
see ! " 

The  boy  sighed. 


BY        PROXY  13 

"  Poddle  and  me,"  she  added,  with  a 
wag  of  the  head  to  convince  him,  ^'  will 
show  you  where  your  father  goes." 

"  I  wish,"  the  boy  said,  wistfully, 
"  that  he  wasn't  dead." 

"  Don't  you  do  it  I "  she  flashed. 
"  It  don't  make  no  difference  to  him. 
It's  a  good  thing.  I  bet  he's  glad  to  be 
dead." 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"Yes,  he  is!  Don't  you  think  he 
isn't.  There  ain't  nothing  like  being 
dead.  Everybody's  happy  —  when 
they're  dead." 

"  He's  so  still !  "  the  boy  whispered. 

"It  feels  fine  to  be  still — like 
that." 

"  And  he's  so  cold  I  " 

"  No  I  "  she  scorned.  "  He  don't  feel 
cold.  You  think  he's  cold.  But  he 
ain't.      That's    just   what    you    ihinh. 


14         THE        MOTHER 

He's  comfortable.  He's  glad  to  be 
dead.     Everybody's  glad  to  be  dead." 

The  boy  shuddered. 

''  Don't  you  do  that  no  more  !  "  said 
the  woman.  "  It  don't  hurt  to  be  dead. 
Honest,  it  don't  I  It  feels  real  good  to 
be  that  way." 

*'  I— I— I  don't  think  I'd  like— to  be 
dead  !  " 

"  You  don't  have  to  if  you  don't 
want  to,"  the  woman  replied,  thrown 
into  a  confusion  of  pain  and  alarm. 
To  comfort  him,  to  shield  him  from 
agony,  to  keep  the  shadow  of  fear  from 
falling  upon  him  :  she  desired  nothing 
more  ;  and  she  was  content  to  succeed 
if  but  for  the  moment.  '*  I  tell  you," 
she  continued,  '^  you  never  will  be  dead 
— if  you  don't  want  to.  Your  father 
wanted  to  be  dead.  '  I  think,  Millie,' 
says  he,  '  I'd   like  to   be  dead.'     *  All 


BY        PROXY  15 

right,  Dick/  says  I.  '  If  you  want  to,  I 
won't  stand  in  your  way.  But  I  don't 
know  about  the  boy.'  ^  Oh/  says  he, 
'  the  boy  won't  stand  in  my  way.'  '  I 
guess  that's  right,  Dick,'  says  I,  *  for  the 
boy  loves  you.'  And  so,"  she  con- 
cluded, ''  he  died.  But  you  don't  have 
to  die.  You'll  never  die — not  unless 
you  want  to."  She  kissed  him. 
'*  Don't  you  be  afraid,  dear  I "  she 
crooned. 

"  I'm  not— afraid." 

"Well,  then,"  she  asked,  puzzled, 
"  what  are  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  he  faltered.  "I 
think  it  makes  me — sick  at  the — 
stomach." 

He  had  turned  white.  She  took 
him  in  her  arms,  to  comfort  and 
hearten  him — an  unfailing  device  :  her 
kisses,   her   warm,   ample   bosom,   her 


i6        THE        MOTHER 

close  embrace ;  he  was  by  these  always 
consoled.  .  .  . 


Next  day,  then,  in  accordance  with 
the  woman's  device,  the  boy  and  his 
mother  set  out  with  the  veiled  man  for 
the  Church  of  the  Lifted  Cross,  where 
the  obsequies  of  Senator  Boligand  were 
to  take  place.  It  was  sad  weather — 
a  cold  rain  falling,  the  city  gray,  all 
the  world  black-clad  and  dripping  and 
sour  of  countenance.  The  veiled  man 
said  never  a  word ;  he  held  the  boy's 
hand  tight,  and  strode  gloomily  on — 
silent  of  melancholy,  of  protest,  of 
ill  temper :  there  was  no  knowing, 
for  his  face  was  hid.  The  woman, 
distinguished  by  a  mass  of  blinding 
blonde  hair  and  a  complexion  sus- 
ceptible to  change  by  the  weather,  was 
dressed   in   the   ultra-fashionable  way 


BY         PROXY  17 

— the  small  differences  of  style  all 
accentuated :  the  whole  tawdry  and 
shabby  and  limp  in  the  rain.  The 
child,  a  slender  boy,  delicately  white 
of  skin,  curly  headed,  with  round, 
dark  eyes,  outlooking  in  wonder  and 
troubled  regard,  but  yet  bravely 
enough,  trotted  between  the  woman 
and  the  man,  a  hand  in  the  hand  of 
each.  .  .  .  And  when  they  came  to 
the  Church  of  the  Lifted  Cross  ;  and 
when  the  tiny,  flickering  lights,  and 
the  stained  windows,  and  the  shadows 
overhead,  and  the  throbbing,  far-off 
music  had  worked  their  spell  upon 
him,  he  snuggled  close  to  his  mother, 
wishing  himself  well  away  from  the 
sadness  and  mystery  of  the  place,  but 
glad  that  its  solemn  splendour  honoured 
the  strange  change  his  father  had 
chosen  to  undergo. 


i8         THE        MOTHER 

"  Have  they  brought  papa  yet?  "  he 
whispered. 

"Hush  !  "  she  answered.  "  He's 
come." 

For  a  moment  she  was  in  a  panic — 
lest  the  child's  prattle,  being  perilously 
indiscreet,  involve  them  all  in  humil- 
iating difficulties.  Scandal  of  this  sort 
would  be  intolerable  to  the  young 
Boligand  widow. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  Don't  talk  so  loud,  dear.  He's 
down  in  front — where  all  the  lights 
are." 

"  Can't  we  go  there  ? ' 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  whispered,  quickly. 
"  It  isn't  the  way.  We  must  sit  here. 
Don't  talk,  dear  ;  it  isn't  the  way." 

"  I'd  like  to— kiss  him." 

"Oh,  my!"  she  exclaimed.  "It 
isn't  allowed.     We  got  to  sit  right  here. 


BY        PROXY  19 

That^s     the    way    it^s     always     done. 
Hush,  dear  !     Please  don't  talk." 

With  prayer  and  soulful  dirges — 
employing  white  robes  and  many 
lights  and  the  voices  of  children — the 
body  of  Senator  Boligand  was  dealt 
with,  in  the  vast,  dim  church,  accord- 
ing to  the  forms  prescribed,  and  with 
due  regard  for  the  wishes  of  the  young 
widow.  The  Senator  was  an  admirable 
substitute  ;  Dick  Slade's  glorious  ascen- 
sion was  accomplished.  And  the  heart 
of  the  child  was  comforted  by  this 
beauty :  for  then  he  knew  that  his 
father  was  by  some  high  magic  ad- 
mitted to  the  place  of  which  his  mother 
had  told  him — some  place  high  and 
blue  and  ever  light  as  day.  The  fear 
of  death  passed  from  him.  He  was 
glad,  for  his  father's  sake,  that  his 
father  had  died ;  and  he  wished  that 


20         THE        MOTHER 

he,  too,  might  some  day  know  the 
glory  to  which  his  father  had  attained. 

But  when  the  earthly  remains  of  the 
late  distinguished  Senator  were  borne 
down  the  aisle  in  solemn  procession, 
the  boy  had  a  momentary  return  of 
grief. 

"  Is  that  papa  in  the  box  ? "  he 
whimpered. 

His  mother  put  her  lips  to  his  ear. 
"Yes,"  she  gasped.  "But  don't  talk. 
It  isn't  allowed." 

The  veiled  man  turned  audibly  un- 
easy.    "  Cuss  it  I  "  he  fumed. 

"  Oh,  father  !  "  the  boy  sobbed. 

With  happy  promptitude  the  veiled 
man  acted.  He  put  a  hand  over  the 
boy's  mouth.  "For  God's  sake,  Mil- 
lie," he  whispered  to  the  woman, 
"let's  get  out  of  here!  We'll  be 
run  in." 


BY        PROXY  21 

"  Hush,    dear  I  "    the   woman   com- 
manded :  for  she  was  much  afraid. 
After  that,  the  child  was  quiet. 

From  the  room  in  the  Box  Street 
tenement,  meantime,  the  body  of  Dick 
Slade  had  been  taken  in  a  Department 
wagon  to  a  resting-place  befitting  in 
degree. 

"Millie,"  the  veiled  man  protested, 
that  night,  "  you  didn't  ought  to  fool 
the  boy." 

"  It  don^t  matter,  Poddle,"  said  she. 
"  And  I  don't  want  him  to  feel  bad." 

"You  didn't  ought  to  do  it,"  the 
man  persisted.  "  It'll  make  trouble 
for  him." 

"  I  can't  see  him  hurt,"  said  the 
woman,  doggedly.  "  I  love  him  so 
much.  Poddle,  I  just  can't !  It  hurts 
me." 


22         THE        MOTHER 

The  boy  was  now  in  bed.  "  Mother," 
he  asked,  lifting  himself  from  the  pil- 
low, "  when  will  I  die  ?  " 

"  Why,  child  !  "  she  ejaculated. 

*'  I  wish,"  said  the  boy,  "  it  was  to- 
morrow." 

^'  There ! "  said  the  woman,  in  tri- 
umph, to  the  man.  ^*  He  ain't  afraid 
of  death  no  more." 

"  I  told  you  so,  Millie  !  "  the  man 
exclaimed,  at  the  same  instant. 

'*  But  he  ain't  afraid  to  die,"  she  per- 
sisted.    "  And  that's  all  I  want." 

*'You  can't  fool  him  always,"  the 
man  warned. 

The  boy  was  then  four  years  old.  .  .  . 


TOP  floor  rear  of  the  Box  Street 
tenement  looked  out  upon  the 
river.  It  was  lifted  high  :  the 
activities  of  the  broad  stream  and  of  the 
motley  world  of  the  other  shore  went 
silently  ;  the  petty  noises  of  life — the 
creak  and  pufFand  rumble  of  its  labour- 
ing machinery, — straying  upward  from 
the  fussy  places  below,  were  lost  in  the 
space  between. 

Within :   a   bed,  a   stove,  a   table — 
23 


24         THE        MOTHER 

the  gaunt  framework  of  home.  But 
the  window  overlooked  the  river ;  and 
the  boy  was  now  seven  years  old,  un- 
knowing, unquestioning,  serenely  obe- 
dient to  the  circumstances  of  his  life  : 
feeling  no  desire  that  wandered  beyond 
the  familiar  presence  of  his  mother — 
her  voice  and  touch  and  brooding  love. 

It  was  a  magic  window — a  window 
turned  lengthwise,  broad,  low,  small- 
paned,  disclosing  wonders  without  end  : 
a  scene  of  infinite  changes.  There  was 
shipping  below,  restless  craft  upon  the 
water ;  and  beyond,  dwarfed  in  the 
distance,  was  a  confusion  of  streets,  of 
flat,  puffing  roofs,  stretching  from  the 
shining  river  to  the  far,  misty  hills, 
which  lay  beside  the  sea,  invisible  and 
mysterious. 

But  top  floor  rear  was  remote  from 
the    river   and   the   roofs.     From   the 


THE        RIVER  25 

window — and  from  the  love  in  the 
room — the  boy  looked  out  upon  an 
alien  world,  heard  the  distant  murmur, 
monotonously  proceeding,  night  and 
day :  uncomprehending,  but  unper- 
turbed. .  .  . 

In  the  evening  the  boy  sat  with  his 
mother  at  the  window.  Together  they 
watched  the  shadows  gather — the  hills 
and  the  city  and  the  river  dissolve  : 
the  whole  broad  world  turn  to  points 
of  light,  twinkling,  flashing,  darting, 
in  the  black,  voiceless  gulf.  Nor 
would  she  fail  to  watch  the  night 
come,  whether  in  gentle  weather  or 
whipping  rain :  but  there  would  sit, 
the  boy  in  her  arms,  held  close  to  her 
breast,  her  hand  straying  restlessly 
over  his  small  body,  intimately  caress- 
ing it. 


26         THE        MOTHER 

The  falling  shadows  ;  the  river,  flow- 
ing unfeelingly  ;  the  lights,  wandering 
without  rest,  aimless,  forever  astray  in 
the  dark :  these  were  a  spell  upon 
her. 

''  They  go  to  the  sea  !  "  she  whispered, 
once. 

"The  ships,  mother?'^ 

She  put  his  head  in  the  hollow  of 
her  shoulder,  where  her  cheek  might 
touch  his  hair:  all  the  time  staring  out 
at  the  lights  on  the  river. 

"  All  the  ships,  all  the  lights  on  the 
river,"  she  said,  hoarsely,  "go  out 
there. '^ 

"Why?" 

"  The  river  takes  them." 

He  was  made  uneasy :  being  con- 
scious of  the  deeper  meaning — acutely 
aware  of  some  strange  dread  stirring  in 
her  heart. 


THE        RIVER  27 

"  Maybe,"  he  protested, ''  they're  glad 
to  go  away." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  One  night," 
she  said,  leaning  towards  the  window, 
seeming  now  to  forget  the  boy,  "  I 
seen  the  sea.  All  the  lights  on  the 
river  go  different  ways — when  they  get 
out  there.  It  is  a  dark  and  lonesome 
place— big  and  dark  and  lonesome." 

"Then,"  said  he,  quickly,  "you 
would  not  like  to  be  there." 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  do  not  like 
the  sky,"  she  continued ;  "  it  is  so 
big  and  empty.  I  do  not  like  the  sea  ; 
it  is  so  big  and  dark.  And  black  winds 
are  always  blowing  there;  and  the 
lights  go  different  ways.  The  lights," 
she  muttered,  "  go  different  ways !  I 
am  afraid  of  the  dark.  And,  oh  I  "  she 
moaned,  suddenly  crushing  him  to  her 
breast,  rocking  him,  in  an  agony  of 


28         THE        MOTHER 

tenderness,  "  I  am  afraid  of  something 
else.     Oh,  I  am  afraid  !  " 

"Of  what?"  he  gasped. 

"To  be  alone !  "  she  sobbed. 

He  released  himself  from  her  arms — 
sat  back  on  her  knee  :  quivering  from 
head  to  foot,  his  hands  clenched,  his 
lips  writhing.  "  Don't,  mother  !  "  he 
cried.  "  Don't  cry.  We  will  not  go  to 
the  sea.     We  will  not ! '' 

"  We  must,"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  why?" 

She  kissed  him :  her  hand  slipped 
under  his  knees ;  and  she  drew  him 
close  again — and  there  held  him  until 
he  lay  quiet  in  her  arms. 

"  We  are  like  the  lights  on  the  river," 
she  said,  "  The  river  will  take  us  to  a 
place  where  the  lights  go  different 
ways." 

"  We  will  not  go  I  " 


THE        RIVER  29 

"  The  river  will  take  us." 

The  boy  was  puzzled  :  he  lifted  his 
head,  to  watch  the  lights  drift  past,  far  i 
below ;  and  he  was  much  troubled  by 
this  mystery.  She  tried  to  gather  his 
legs  in  her  lap — to  hold  him  as  she 
used  to  do,  when  he  was  a  child  at  her 
breast ;  but  he  was  now  grown  too  large 
for  that,  and  she  suffered,  again,  the 
familiar  pain :  a  perception  of  alien- 
ation— of  inevitable  loss. 

*'  When  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  let  his  legs  fall.  "Soon,"  she 
sighed.  "  When  you  are  older ;  it 
won't  be  long,  now.  When  you  are  a 
little  wiser ;  it  will  be  very  soon." 

'*  When  I  am  wiser,"  he  pondered, 
"  we  must  go.    What  makes  me  wiser  ?  " 

"  The  wise." 

"Are  you  wise?" 

"  God  help  me  !  "  she  answered. 


30         THE        MOTHER 

He  nestled  his  head  on  her  shoulder 
— dismissing  the  mystery  with  a  quick 
sigh.  "  Never  mind/'  he  said,  to  com- 
fort her.  "  You  will  not  be  alone.  I 
will  be  with  you.'' 

^'  I  wonder  I  "  she  mused. 

For  a  moment  more  she  looked  out ; 
but  she  did  not  see  the  river — but  saw 
the  wide  sea,  wind-tossed  and  dark, 
where  the  great  multitude  of  lights 
went  apart,  each  upon  its  mysterious 
way. 

"  Mother,"  he  repeated,  reproach- 
fully, mystified  by  her  hesitation,  ^'  I 
will  always  be  with  you." 

''  I  wonder  !  "  she  mused. 

To  this  doubt — now  clear  to  him  be- 
yond hope — there  was  instant  response  : 
strangely  passionate,  but  in  keeping 
with  his  nature,  as  she  knew.  For  a 
space  he  lay  rigid  on  her  bosom  :  then 


THE         RIVER  31 

struggled  from  her  embrace,  brutally 
wrenching  her  hands  apart,  flinging  oft 
her  arms.  He  stood  swaying :  his 
hands  clenched,  his  slender  body 
aquiver,  as  before,  his  dark  eyes  blaz- 
ing reproach.  It  gave  her  no  alarm, 
but,  rather,  exquisite  pleasure,  to  watch 
his  agony.  She  caught  him  by  the 
shoulders,  and  bent  close,  that  by  the 
night-light,  coming  in  at  the  window, 
she  might  look  into  his  eyes  :  wherein, 
swiftly,  the  flare  of  reproach  turned  to 
hopeless  woe.  And  she  was  glad  that 
he  suffered :  exalted,  so  that  she,  too, 
trembled. 

"  Oh,"  he  pleaded,  "  say  that  I  will 
always  be  with  you  !  " 

She  would  not :  but  continued  to  ex- 
ult in  his  woeful  apprehension. 

*'  Tell  me,  mother !  "  he  implored. 
'^  Tell  me  1 " 


32         THE        MOTHER 

Not  yet :  for  there  was  no  delight  to 
be  compared  with  the  proved  knowl- 
edge of  his  love. 

*' Mother  I"  he  cried. 

"  You  do  not  love  me,"  she  said,  to 
taunt  him. 

''  Oh,  don't  I  "  he  moaned. 

"  No,  no  I  "  she  persisted.  "  You 
don't  love  your  mother  any  more." 

He  was  by  this  reduced  to  uttermost 
despair;  and  he  began  to  beat  his 
breast,  in  the  pitiful  way  he  had.  Per- 
ceiving, then,  that  she  must  no  longer 
bait  him,  she  opened  her  arms.  He 
sprang  into  them.  At  once  his  sobs 
turned  to  sighs  of  infinite  relief,  which 
continued,  until,  of  a  sudden,  he  was 
hugged  so  tight  that  he  had  no  breath 
left  but  to  gasp. 

"  And  you  will  always  be  with  me  ?  " 
he  asked. 


THE        RIVER  33 

"  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,"  she 
answered,  while  she  kissed  him,  ^'  that 
sons  chooses  for  themselves." 

With  that  he  was  quite  content.  .  .  . 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  silent  at  the 
window.  The  boy  dreamed  hopefully 
of  the  times  to  come — serenity  restored. 
For  the  moment  the  woman  was  forget- 
ful of  the  foreshadowed  days,  happy 
that  the  warm,  pulsing  little  body  of 
her  son  lay  unshrinking  in  h6r  arms : 
so  conscious  of  his  love  and  life — so 
wishful  for  a  deeper  sense  of  mother- 
hood— that  she  slipped  her  hand  under 
his  jacket  and  felt  about  for  his  heart, 
and  there  let  her  fingers  lie,  within 
touch  of  its  steady  beating.  The  lights 
still  twinkled  and  flashed  and  aimlessly 
wandered  in  the  night ;  but  the  spell 
of  the  river  was  lifted. 


WITHAL  it  was  a  rare  mood : 
nor,  being  wise,  was  she  given 
to  expressing  it  in  this  gloomy 
fashion.  It  was  her  habit,  rather,  as- 
siduously to  woo  him  :  this  with  kisses, 
soft  and  wet;  with  fleeting  touches; 
with  coquettish  glances  and  the  sly  dis- 
play of  her  charms  ;  with  rambling,  fan- 
tastic tales  of  her  desirability  in  the 
regard  of  men — thus  practicing  all  the 
familiar  fascinations  of  her  kind,  ac- 
34 


A      GARDEN      OF      LIES     35 

cording  to  the  enlightenment  of  the 
world  she  knew.  He  must  be  per- 
suaded, she  thought,  that  his  mother 
was  beautiful,  coveted ;  convinced  of 
her  wit  and  gaiety  :  else  he  would  not 
love  her.  Life  had  taught  her  no 
other  way.  .  .  .  And  always  at  break 
of  day,  when  he  awoke  in  her  arms, 
she  waited,  with  a  pang  of  anxiety, 
pitilessly  recurring,  lest  there  be  some 
sign  that  despite  her  feverish  precau- 
tions the  heedless  world  had  in  her 
nightly  absence  revealed  that  which 
she  desperately  sought  to  hide  from 
him.  .  .  . 

Thus,  by  and  by,  when  the  lamp  was 
alight — when  the  shadows  were  all 
chased  out  of  the  window,  driven  back 
to  the  raw  fall  night,  whence  they  had 
crept  in — she  lapsed  abruptly  into  her 


36         THE        MOTHER 

natural  manner  and  practices.  She 
spread  a  newspaper  on  the  table, 
whistling  in  a  cheery  fashion,  the  while 
covertly  observing  the  effect  of  this 
lively  behaviour.  With  a  knowing 
smile,  promising  vast  gratification,  she 
got  him  on  her  knee ;  and  together, 
cheek  to  cheek,  her  arm  about  his 
waist,  they  bent  over  the  page  :  whereon 
some  function  of  the  rich,  to  which  the 
presence  of  the  Duchess  of  Croft  and  of 
the  distinguished  Lord  Wychester  had 
given  sensational  importance,  was  gro- 
tesquely pictured. 

"  Now,  mother,"  said  he,  spreading 
the  picture  flat,  ^'  show  me  you." 

''  This  here  lady,"  she  answered, 
evasively,  ^^  is  the  Duchess  of  Croft." 

"Is  it?"  he  asked,  without  in- 
terest. "  She  is  very  fat.  Where  are 
you  ?  " 


A      GARDEN      OF      LIES    37 

"  And  here,"  she  proceeded,  "  is  Lord 
Wy  Chester." 

"  Mother,"  he  demanded,  "  where  are 
you  f  " 

She  was  disconcerted  ;  no  promising 
evasion  immediately  occurred  to  her. 
"  Maybe,"  she  began,  tentatively,  ^*  this 
lady  here " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  he  cried,  looking  up  with 
alittle  laugh.  **  It  is  not  like  you,  at  all !" 

"Well,"  she  said,  "it's  probably 
meant  for  me." 

He  shook  his  head ;  and  by  the 
manner  of  this  she  knew  that  he  would 
not  be  deceived. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  the  Duchess 
told  the  man  not  to  put  me  in  the  pic- 
ture. I  guess  that's  it.  She  was  awful 
jealous.  You  see,  dear,"  she  went  on, 
very  solemnly,  ''  Lord  Wy Chester  took 
a  great  fancy  to  me." 


38         THE        MOTHER 

He  looked  up  with  interest. 

''  To — my  shape/'  she  added. 

''  Oh  !  "  said  he. 

**  And  that,"  she  continued,  noting 
his  pleasure,  "  made  the  Duchess  hot ; 
for  she^s  too  fat  to  have  much  of  a  figure. 
Most  men,  you  know,"  she  added,  as 
though  reluctant  in  her  own  praise, ''  do 
fancy  mine."  She  brushed  his  cheek 
with  her  lips.  '^  Don't  you  think,  dear," 
she  asked,  assuming  an  air  of  girlish 
coquetry,  thus  to  compel  the  compli- 
ment, ^^  that  I'm — rather — pretty?  " 

"  I  think,  mother,"  he  answered, 
positively,  *'  that  you're  very,  very 
pretty." 

It  made  her  eyes  shine  to  hear  it. 
'^  Well,"  she  resumed,  improvising 
more  confidently,  now,  *'  the  Duchess 
was  awful  mortified  because  Lord 
Wychester  danced  with  me  seventeen 


A      GARDEN      OF      LIES    39 

times.     ^  Lord    Wy Chester,'    says    she, 

*  what  do  you  see  in  that  blonde  with 
the  diamonds?'     'Duchess,'   says   he, 

*  I  bet  the  blonde  don't  weigh  over  a 
hundred  and  ten  ! ' " 

There  was  no  answering  smile  ;  the 
boy  glanced  at  the  picture  of  the  wise 
and  courtly  old  Lord  Wychester, 
gravely  regarded  that  of  the  Duchess 
of  Croft,  of  whose  matronly  charms,  of 
whose  charities  and  amiable  qualities, 
all  the  world  knows. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  *  Oh,  dear  me.  Lord  Wychester  I ' 
says  she.  *  If  you're  looking  for  bones,' 
says  she,  '  that  blonde  is  a  regular  glue- 
factory  ! ' " 

He  caught  his  breath. 

"  *  A  regular  glue-factory,'  "  she  re- 
peated, inviting  sympathy.  '^  That's 
what  she  said." 


40        THE        MOTHER 

"Did  you  cry?" 

"Not  me!  "she  scorned.  "Cry?  Not 
me  I     Not  for  no  mountain  like  her  I  " 

"  And  what,"  he  asked,  "  did  Lord 
Wychester  do?" 

"  '  Back  to  the  side-show,  Duchess  ! ' 
says  Lord  Wychester.  '  You're  too  fat 
for  decent  company.  My  friend  the 
Dook,'  says  he,  'may  be  partial  to 
fat  ladies  and  ten-cent  freaks ;  but  my 
taste  runs  to  slim  blondes.'  " 

No  amusement  was  excited  by  Lord 
Wychester's  second  sally.  In  the  world 
she  knew,  it  would  have  provoked  a 
shout  of  laughter.  The  boy's  gravity 
disquieted  her. 

"  Did  you  laugh  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Everybody,"  she  answered,  piti- 
fully, "  give  her  the  laugh." 

He  sighed — somewhat  wistfully.  "  I 
wish,"  he  said,  "  that  you  hadn't." 


A      GARDEN       OF      LIES    41 

"  Why  not  I  "  she  wondered,  in  gen- 
uine surprise. 

"  I  don't  know." 

''  Why,  dear  !  "  she  exclaimed,  a  note 
of  alarm  in  her  voice.  ^'  It  isn't  bad 
manners  I  Anyhow,"  she  qualified, 
quick  to  catch  her  cue,  "  I  didn't  laugh 
much.  I  hardly  laughed  at  all.  I 
don't  believe  I  did  laugh." 

"  I'm  glad,"  he  said. 

Then,  "  I'm  sure  of  it,"  she  ventured, 
boldly  ;  and  she  observed  with  relief 
that  he  was  not  incredulous. 

''  Did  the  Duchess  cry  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  my,  no !  '  Waiter,'  says  the 
Duchess,  '  open  another  bottle  of  that 
wine.     I  feel  faint.'  " 

''  What  did  Lord  Wy Chester  do 
then?" 

"  He  paid  for  the  wine."  It  occurred 
to  her  that  she  might  now  surely  de- 


42         THE        MOTHER 

light  him.  ^*  Then  he  wanted  to  buy  a 
bottle  for  me,"  she  continued,  eagerly, 
"just  to  spite  the  Duchess.  *  If  she  can 
have  wine,^  says  he,  ^  there  isn't  no  good 
reason  why  you  got  to  go  dry.'  But  I 
couldn't  see  it.  *  Oh,  come  on  I '  says 
he.  ^  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Have  a  drink.'  *  No,  you  don't  I '  says 
I.  'Why  not?'  says  he."  She  drew 
the  boy  a  little  closer,  and,  in  the  pause^ 
she  patted  his  hand.  " '  Because,'  says 
I,"  she  whispered,  tenderly,  "  '  I  got  a 
son  ;  and  I  donH  want  him  to  do  no 
drinking  when  he  grows  up !  ^  ^^  She 
paused  again — that  the  effect  of  the 
words  and  of  the  caress  might  not  be 
interrupted.  ''  ^  Come  off! '  says  Lord 
Wychester,"  she  went  on ;  " '  you 
haven't  got  no  son.'  *  You  wouldn't 
think  to  look  at  me,'  says  I, '  that  I  got 
a  son  seven  years  old  the  twenty-third 


A      GARDEN       OF      LIES    43 

of  last  month.'  '  To  the  tall  timber  ! ' 
says  he.  *  You're  too  young  and  pretty. 
I'll  give  you  a  thousand  dollars  for  a 
kiss.'  ^  No,  you  don't  1 '  says  I.  *  Why 
not  ? '  says  he.  *  Because,'  says  I, '  you 
don't.'  '  I'll  give  you  two  thousand,' 
says  he." 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  boy  ;  his 
arms  were  anxiously  stealing  round  her 
neck. 

"  *  Three  thousand  I '  says  he." 

"  Mother,"  the  boy  whispered,  "  did 
you  give  it  to  him  ?  " 

Again,  she  drew  him  to  her :  as  all 
mothers  will,  when,  in  the  twilight, 
they  tell  tales  to  their  children,  and  the 
climax  approaches. 

"  *  Four  thousand  ! '  says  he." 

''Mother,"  the  boy  implored,  "tell 
me  quick  1     What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  '  Lord  Wychester,'  says  I,  '  I  don't 


44         THE        MOTHER 

give  kisses/  says  I,  ^  because  my  son 
doesn't  want  me  to  do  no  such  thing ! 
No,  sir !  Not  for  a  million  dollars  ! '  " 
She  was  then  made  happy  by  his 
rapturous  affection ;  and  she  now  first 
perceived — in  a  benighted  way — that 
virtue  was  more  appealing  to  him  than 
the  sum  of  her  physical  attractions. 
Upon  this  new  thought  she  pondered. 
She  was  unable  to  reduce  it  to  formal 
terms,  to  be  sure ;  but  she  felt  a  new 
delight,  a  new  hope,  and  was  uplifted, 
though  she  knew  not  why.  Later — at 
the  crisis  of  their  lives — the  perception 
returned  with  sufficient  strength  to  il- 
luminate her  way.  .  .  . 

Presently  the  boy  broke  in  upon  her 
musing.  '^  It  was  blondes  Lord  Wy- 
chester  liked,"  he  remarked,  with 
pride  ;  ''  wasn't  it,  mother?  " 


A      GARDEN      OF      LIES    45 

"  Slim  blondes,"  she  corrected. 

"  Bleached  blondes  ?  " 

She  was  appalled  by  the  disclosure ; 
and  she  was  taken  unaware :  nor  did 
she  dare  discover  the  extent,  the  sig- 
nificance, of  this  new  sophistication, 
nor  whence  it  came,  lest  she  be  all  at 
once  involved  in  a  tangle  of  explana- 
tion, from  which  there  could  be  no  sure 
issue.  She  sighed  ;  her  head  drooped, 
until  it  rested  on  his  shoulder,  her  wet 
lashes  against  his  cheek — despairing, 
helpless. 

"  What  makes  you  sad?  "  he  asked. 

Then  she  gathered  impetuous  cour- 
age. She  must  be  calm,  she  knew ; 
but  she  must  divert  him.  "  See,"  she 
began,  "  what  it  says  about  your  mother 
in  the  paper ! "  She  ran  her  finger 
down  a  long  column  of  the  fulsome 
description  of  the  great  Multon  ball — 


46         THE        MOTHER 

the  list  of  fashionables,  the  costumes. 
**  Here  it  is  I  *  She  was  the  loveliest 
woman  at  the  dance.'  That's  me.  *  All 
the  men  said  so.  What  if  she  is  a 
bleached  blonde?  Some  people  says 
that  bleached  blondes  is  no  good.  It's 
a  lie  ! '  "  she  cried,  passionately,  to  the 
bewilderment  of  the  boy.  *'  *  God  help 
them !  There's  honest  people  every- 
where.' Are  you  listening?  Here's 
more  about  me.  'She  does  the  best 
she  can.  Maybe  she  donH  amount  to 
much,  maybe  she  is  a  bleached  blonde ; 
but  she  does  the  best  she  can.  She 
never  done  no  wrong  in  all  her  life. 
She  loves  her  son  too  much  for  that. 
Oh,  she  loves  her  son  !  She'd  rather 
die  than  have  him  feel  ashamed  of  her. 
There  isn't  a  better  woman  in  the  world. 

There  isn't  a  better  mother '  '* 

He  clapped  his  hands. 


A      GARDEN       OF      LIES    47 

*' Don't  you  believe  it?"  she  de- 
manded. "  Don't  you  believe  what  the 
paper  says?" 

'at's  true!"  he  cried.  "It's  all 
true ! " 

"  How  do  3^ou  know,"  she  whispered, 
intensely,  "  that  it's  all  true?  " 

"  l—^usi— feel  it !  " 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  clock. 
It  struck  seven  times.  .  .  . 

In  great  haste  and  alarm  she  put 
him  from  her  knee ;  and  she  caught 
up  her  hat  and  cloak,  and  kissed  him, 
and  ran  out,  calling  back  her  good- 
night, again  and  again,  as  she  clattered 
down  the  stairs.  ...  In  the  streets 
of  the  place  to  which  she  hurried,  there 
were  flaming  lights,  the  laughter  of 
men  and  flaunting  women,  the  crash 
and  rumble  and  clang  of  night-traffic. 


48        THE        MOTHER 

the  blatant  clamour  of  the  pleasures  of 
night ;  shuffling,  blear-eyed  derelicts 
of  passion,  creeping  beldames,  peevish 
children,  youth  consuming  itself;  rags 
and  garish  jewels,  hunger,  greasy  con- 
tent— a  confusion  of  wretchedness,  of 
greed  and  grim  w^ant,  of  delirious 
gaiety,  of  the  sins  that  stalk  in  dark- 
ness. .  .  .  Through  it  all  she  brushed, 
unconscious — lifted  from  it  by  the 
magic  of  this  love:  dwelling  only 
upon  the  room  that  overlooked  the 
river,  and  upon  the  child  within ;  re- 
membering the  light  in  his  eyes  and 
the  tenderness  of  his  kiss. 


WHILE  the  boy  sat  alone,  in 
wistful  idleness,  thpre  came  a 
knock  at  the  door — a  pom- 
pous rat-tat-tat,  with  a  stout  tap-tap  or 
two  added,  once  and  for  all  to  put  the 
quality  of  the  visitor  beyond  doubt. 
The  door  was  then  cautiously  pushed 
ajar  to  admit  the  head  of  the  personage 
thus  impressively  heralded.  And  a 
most  extraordinary  head  it  was — of  fear- 
some aspect ;  nothing  but  long  and  in- 
49 


50         THE        MOTHER 

timate  familiarity  could  resign  the  be- 
holder to  the  unexpected  appearance  of 
it.  Long,  tawny  hair,  now  sadly  un- 
kempt, fell  abundantly  from  crown  to 
shoulders  ;  and  hair  as  tawny,  as  luxu- 
riantly thick,  almost  as  long,  completely 
covered  the  face,  from  every  part  of 
which  it  sprang,  growing  shaggy  and 
rank  at  the  eyebrows,  which  served  to 
ambush  two  sharp  little  eyes :  so  that 
the  whole  bore  a  precise  resemblance  to 
an  ill-natured  Skye  terrier.  It  is  super- 
fluous to  add  that  this  was  at  once  the 
face  and  the  fortune  of  Toto,  the  Dog- 
faced  Man,  known  in  private  life,  to  as 
many  intimates  as  a  jealous  profession 
can  tolerate,  as  Mr.  Poddle  :  for  the  pres- 
ent disabled  from  public  appearance  by 
the  quality  of  the  air  supplied  to  the  ex- 
hibits at  Hockley's  Musee,  his  lungs 
being,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  "  not 


THE   CELEBRITY   IN   LOVE  51 

gone,  by  no  means,  but  gittin'  rest- 
less." 

"Mother  gone?"  asked  the  Dog- 
faced  Man. 

"  She  has  gone,  Mr.  Poddle,"  the  boy 
answered,  "  to  dine  with  the  Mayor." 

"  Oh  I  "  Mr.  Poddle  ejaculated. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  the  boy 
asked,  frowning  uneasily.  "You  al- 
ways say,  *  Oh  I '  " 

"Do  I?  ^  Oh!'     Like  that?" 

"Why  do  you  do  it?" 

"  Celebrities,"  replied  Mr.  Poddle, 
testily,  entering  at  that  moment,  "  is 
not  accountable.  Me  bein'  one,  don't 
ask  me  no  questions." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  boy. 

Mr.  Poddle  sat  himself  in  a  chair  by 
the  window  :  and  there  began  to  catch 
and  vent  his  breath  ;  but  whether  in 
melancholy  sighs  or  snorts  of  indigna- 


52         THE        MOTHER 

tion  it  was  impossible  to  determine. 
Having  by  these  violent  means  re- 
stored himself  to  a  state  of  feeling 
more  nearly  normal,  he  trifled  for  a 
time  with  the  rings  flashing  on  his 
thin,  white  fingers,  listlessly  brushed 
the  dust  from  the  skirt  of  his  rusty 
frock  coat,  heaved  a  series  of  unmis- 
takable sighs  :  whereupon — and  by 
this  strange  occupation  the  boy  was 
quite  fascinated — he  drew  a  little  comb, 
a  little  brush,  a  little  mirror,  from  his 
pocket ;  and  having  set  up  the  mirror 
in  a  convenient  place,  he  proceeded  to 
dress  his  hair,  with  particular  attention 
to  the  eyebrows,  which,  by  and  by,  he 
tenderly  braided  into  two  limp  little 
horns  :  so  that  'twas  not  long  before  he 
looked  much  less  like  a  frowsy  Skye 
terrier,  much  more  like  an  owl. 

"  The  hour,  Richard,"  he  sighed,  as 


THE  CELEBRITY  IN  LOVE  53 

he  deftly  parted  his  hair  in  the  middle 
of  his  nose,  "  has  came  !  " 

With  such  fond  and  hopeless  feeling 
were  these  enigmatical  words  charged 
that  the  boy  could  do  nothing  but 
heave  a  sympathetic  sigh. 

*'  You  see  before  you,  Richard,  what 
you  never  seen  before.  A  man  in  the 
clutches,"  Mr.  Poddle  tragically  pur- 
sued, giving  a  vicious  little  twist  to  his 
left  eyebrow,  '*  of  the  tender  pas- 
sion ! " 

"  Oh  I  "  the  boy  muttered. 

^'^Fame,'"  Mr.  Poddle  continued, 
improvising  a  newspaper  head-line,  to 
make  himself  clear,  "  *  No  Shield 
Against  the  Little  God's  Darts.'  Git 
me?  The  high  and  the  low  gits  the 
arrows  in  the  same  place." 

"Does  it— hurt?" 

"  Hurt !  "  cried  Mr.  Poddle,  furiously. 


54         THE        MOTHER 

''  It's  perfectly  excrugiating  !  Hurt  ? 
Why '' 

"  Mr.  Poddle,  excuse  me,"  the  boy 
interrupted,  "  but  you  are  biting  your 
mustache.'^ 

"  Thanks,"  said  Mr.  Poddle,  promptly. 
"  Glad  to  know  it.  Can't  afford  to 
lose  no  more  hirsute  adornment.  And 
I'm  give  to  ravagin'  it  in  moments  of 
excitement,  especially  sorrow.  Always 
tell  me." 

"  I  will,"  the  boy  gravely  prom- 
ised. 

"  The  Pink-eyed  Albino,"  Mr.  Pod- 
dle continued,  now  released  from  the 
necessity  of  commanding  his  feelings, 
in  so  far  as  the  protection  of  his  hair 
was  concerned,  "  was  fancy  ;  the  Cir- 
cassian Beauty  was  fascination ;  the 
Female  Sampson  was  the  hallugination 
of  sky-blue   tights  ;   but  the  Mexican 


THE  CELEBRITY  IN  LOVE  55 

Sword  Swallower,"  he  murmured,  with 
a  melancholy  wag,  "  is " 

"Mr.  Poddle,"  the  boy  warned,  "  you 
are — at  it  again." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Mr.  Poddle,  hastily 
eliminating  the  danger.  ''  What  I  was 
about  to  remark,"  was  his  lame  conclu- 
sion, "was  that  the  Mexican  Sword 
Swallower  is  loveJ^ 

"  Oh  I " 

The  Dog-faced  Man  snapped  a  sigh  in 
two.  "  Richard,"  he  insinuated  suspi- 
ciously, "  what  you  sayin', '  Oh  I '  for  ?  " 

"  Wasn't  the  Bearded  Lady,  love  ?  " 

"  Love  !  "  laughed  Mr.  Poddle.  "  Ha, 
ha  I  Far  from  it  I  Not  so!  The 
Bearded  Lady  was  the  snare  of  ambi- 
tion. '  Marriage  Arranged  Between 
the  Young  Duke  of  Blueblood  and  the 
Daughter  of  the  Clothes-pin  King. 
Millions  of  the  Higgleses  to  Repair  the 


56         THE        MOTHER 

Duke's  Shattered  Fortunes.'  Git  me? 
*  Wedding  of  the  Bearded  Lady  and 
the  Dog-faced  Man.  Sunday  After- 
noon at  Hockley's  Popular  Musee. 
No  Extra  Charge  for  Admission. 
Fabulous  Quantity  of  Human  Hair  on 
Exhibition  At  the  Same  Instant.  Hir- 
sute Wonders  To  Tour  the  Country  at 
Enormous  Expense.'  Git  me?  Same 
thing.  Love  ?  Ha,  ha !  Not  so  I 
There's  no  more  love  in  that,''  Mr.  Pod- 
die  concluded,  bitterly,  "than " 

"  Mr.  Poddle,  you  are " 

"Thanks,"  faltered  Mr.  Poddle.  "As 
I  was  about  to  remark  when  you — ah — 
come  to  the  rescue — love  is  froze  out  of 
high  life.  Us  natural  phenomenons  is 
the  slaves  of  our  inheritages." 

"  But  you  said  the  Bearded  Lady  was 
love  at  last !  " 

"  '  Duke  Said  To  Be  Madly  In  Love 


THE  CELEBRITY  IN  LOVE  57 

With  the  American  Beauty/ "  Mr. 
Poddle  composedly  replied. 

'*  I  don't  quite — get  you  ?  " 

"  Us  celebrities  has  our  secrets. 
High  life  is  hollow.  Public  must  be 
took  into  account.  *  Sacrificed  On  His 
Country's  Altar.'  Git  me?  'Good  of 
the  Profession.'  Broken  hearts — and 
all  that." 

"  Would  you  have  broken  the 
Bearded  Lady's  heart?" 

Mr.  Poddle  was  by  this  recalled  to 
his  own  lamentable  condition.  "  I've 
gone  and  broke  my  own,"  he  burst 
out ;  "  for  I'm  give  to  understand  that 
the  lovely  Sword  Swallower  is  got  en- 
tangled with  a  tattooed  man.  Not," 
Mr.  Poodle  hastily  added,  *'  with  a  real 
tattooed  man !  Not  by  no  means ! 
Far  from  it  I  He's  only  half  done! 
Git  me  ?     His  legs  is  finished  ;  and  I'm 


58         THE        MOTHER 

give  to  u*Qderstand  that  the  Chinese 
dragon  on  his  back  is  gettin'  near  the 
end  of  its  tail.  There  may  be  a  risin' 
sun  on  his  chest,  and  a  snake  drawed 
out  on  his  waist ;  of  that  I've  heard 
rumors,  but  I  ain't  had  no  reports. 
Not,"  said  Mr.  Poddle,  impressively, 
^'what  you  might  call  undenigeable 
reports.  And  Richard,"  he  whispered, 
in  great  excitement  and  contempt, 
"  that  there  half-cooked  freak  won't  be 
done  for  a  year !  He's  bein'  worked 
over  on  the  installment  plan.  And 
I'm  give  to  understand  that  she'll 
wait !  Oh,  wimmen  !  "  the  Dog-faced 
Man  apostrophized.  ''  Took  by  shapes 
and  complexions " 

"  Mr.  Poddle,  excuse  me,"  the  boy 
interrupted,  diffidently, ''  but  your  eye- 
brow  " 

''  Thanks,"  Mr.  Poddle  groaned,  his 


THE   CELEBRITY  IN  LOVE  59 

frenzy  collapsing.  "  As  I  was  about  to 
say,  wimmen  is  like  arithmetic ;  there 
ain't  a  easy  sum  in  the  book." 

"  Mr.  Poddle  I  " 

"  Thanks/'  said  Mr.  Poddle,  in  deep 
disgust.  "Am  I  at  it  again?  O'er- 
whelming  grief!  This  here  love  will 
be  the  ruin  of  me.  *  Bank  Cashier  De- 
faulted For  a  Woman.'  I've  lost  more 
priceless  strands  since  I  seen  that 
charming  creature  than  I'll  get  back  in 
a  year.  I've  bit  'em  off!  I've  tore  'em 
out !  If  this  here  goes  on  I'll  be  a 
Hairless  Wonder  in  a  month.  *  Sui- 
cided For  Love.'  Same  thing  exactly. 
And  what's  worse,"  he  continued,  de- 
jectedly, "  the  objeck  of  my  adoration 
don't  look  at  it  right.  She  takes  me  for 
a  common  audience.  No  regard  for 
talent.  No  appreciation  for  hair  in 
the  wrong  place.     ^  Genius  Jilted  By  A 


6o         THE        MOTHER 

Factory  Girl.'  And  she  takes  that 
manufactured  article  of  a  tattooed  man 
for  a  regular  platform  attraction! 
Don't  seem  to  know,  Richard,  that 
freaks  is  born,  not  made.  What's 
fame,  anyhow  ?  " 

The  boy  did  not  know. 

<'  Why,  cuss  me  !  "  the  Dog-faced 
Man  exploded,  *^  she  treats  me  as  if  I 
was  dead-headed  into  the  Show  !  " 

^'  Excuse  me,  but " 

"  Thanks.  God  knows,  Richard,  I 
ain't  in  love  with  her  throat  and  stum- 
mick.  It  ain't  because  the  one's  un- 
equalled for  resistin'  razor-edged  steel 
and  the  other  stands  unrivalled  in  its 
capacity  for  holdin'  cold  metal.  It 
ain't  her  talent,  Richard.  No,  it  ain't 
her  talent.  It  ain't  her  beauty.  It 
ain't  even  her  fame.  It  ain't  so  much 
her  massive  proportions.     It's  just  the 


THE  CELEBRITY  IN  LOVE  6i 

way  she  darns  stockings.  Just  the 
way  she  sits  up  there  on  the  platform 
darnin'  them  stockings  as  if  there 
wasn't  no  such  thing  as  an  admirin' 
public  below.  It's  just  her  self.  Git 
me?  'Give  Up  A  Throne  To  Wed 
A  Butcher's  Daughter.'  Understand? 
Why,  God  bless  you,  Richard,  if  she 
was  a  Fiji  Island  Cannibal  I'd  love  her 
just  the  same  !  " 

''  I  think,  Mr.  Poddle,"  the  boy  ven- 
tured, ''  that  I'd  tell  her."      . 

''  I  did,"  Mr.  Poddle  replied.  "  Much 
to  my  regrets  I  did.  I  writ.  Worked 
up  a  beautiful  piece  out  of '  The  Light- 
ning Letter- writer  for  Lovers.'  '  Oh, 
beauteous  Sword-Swallower,'  I  writ, 
'  pet  of  the  public,  pride  of  the  side- 
show, bright  particular  star  in  the  con- 
stellation of  natural  phenomenons ! 
One  who  is  not  unknown  to  fame  is 


62         THE        MOTHER 

dazzled  by  your  charms.  He  dares  to 
lift  his  stricken  eyes,  to  give  vent  to  the 
tumultuous  beatings  of  his  manly 
bosom,  to  send  you,  in  fact,  this  note. 
And  if  you  want  to  know  who  done  it, 
wear  a  red  rose  to-night/  Well,"  Mr. 
Poddle  continued,  "  she  seen  me  give  it 
to  the  peanut-boy.  And  knowin^  who 
it  come  from,  she  writ  back.  She 
writ,"  Mr.  Poddle  dramatically  re- 
peated, ''  right  back." 

The  pause  was  so  long,  so  painful, 
that  the  boy  was  moved  to  inquire  con- 
cerning the  answer. 

''  It  stabs  me,"  said  Mr.  Poddle. 

**  I  think  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  the 
boy. 

"  '  Are  you  much  give,'  says  she,  '  to 
barkin'  in  your  sleep?  '  " 

A  very  real  tear  left  the  eye  of  Mr. 
Poddle,  ran  down  the  hair  of  his  cheek, 


THE   CELEBRITY  IN  LOVE  63 

changed  its  course  to  the  eyebrow,  and 
there  hung  glistening.  .  .  . 

It  was  apparent  that  the  Dog-faced 
Man's  thoughts  must  immediately  be 
diverted  into  more  cheerful  channels. 
"Won't  you  please  read  to  me,  Mr. 
Poddle,"  said  the  boy,  "  what  it  says  in 
the  paper  about  my  mother  ?  " 

The  ruse  was  effective.  Mr.  Poddle 
looked  up  with  a  start.  ''Eh?"  he 
ejaculated. 

*'  Won't  you  ?  "  the  boy  begged. 

"  I  been  talkin'  so  much,  Richard," 
Mr.  Poddle  stammered,  turning  hoarse 
all  at  once,  "  that  I  gone  and  lost  my 
voice." 

He  decamped  to  his  room  across  the 
hall  without  another  word. 


AT  midnight  the  boy  had  long 
been  sound  asleep  in  bed.  The 
lamp  was  turned  low.  It  was 
very  quiet  in  the  room — quiet  and 
shadowy  in  all  the  tenement.  .  .  . 
And  the  stair  creaked ;  and  footfalls 
shuffled  along  the  hall — and  hesitated  at 
the  door  of  the  place  where  the  child  lay 
quietly  sleeping ;  and  there  ceased. 
There  was  the  rumble  of  a  man's  voice, 
deep,  insistent,  imperfectly  restrained. 
64 


AT        MIDNIGHT        65 

A  woman  protested.  The  door  was 
softly  opened ;  and  the  boy's  mother 
stepped  in,  moving  on  tiptoe,  and  swiftly 
turned  to  bar  entrance  with  her  arm. 

"  Hist ! "  she  whispered,  angrily. 
"Don't  speak  so  loud.  You'll  wake 
the  boy." 

"Let  me  in,  Millie,"  the  man  in- 
sisted.    "  Aw,  come  on,  now  I  " 

"  I  can't,  Jim.  You  know  I  can't. 
Go  on  home  now.  Stop  that  I  I  wonH 
marry  you.  Let  go  my  arnci.  You'll 
wake  the  boy,  I  tell  you  I " 

There  was  a  short  scuffle  :  at  the  end 
of  which,  the  woman's  arm  still  barred 
the  door. 

"  Here  I  ain't  seen  you  in  three  year," 
the  man  complained.  "  And  you  won't 
let  me  in.  That  ain't  right,  Millie. 
It  ain't  kind  to  an  old  friend  like  me. 
You  didn't  used  to  be  that  way." 


66         THE        MOTHER 

"  No,"  the  woman  whispered,  ab- 
stractedly ;  ''  there's  been  a  change.  I 
ain't  the  same  as  I  used  to  be." 

"You  ain't  changed  for  the  better, 
Millie.     No,  you  ain't." 

''  I  don't  know,"  she  mused.  ''  Some- 
times I  think  not.  It  ain't  because  I 
don't  want  you,  Jim,"  she  continued, 
speaking  more  softly,  now,  '^  that  I 
don't  let  you  in.  God  knows,  I  like  to 
meet  old  friends  ;  but " 

It  was  sufficient.  The  man  gently 
took  her  arm  from  the  way.  He 
stepped  in — glanced  at  the  sleeping 
boy,  lying  still  as  death,  shaded  from 
the  lamp — and  turned  again  to  the 
woman. 

"  Don't  wake  him  I  "  she  said. 

They  were  still  standing.  The  man 
was  short,  long-armed,  vastly  broad  at 
the  shoulders,  deep-chested  :  flashy  in 


AT        MIDNIGHT        67 

dress,  dull  and  kind  of  feature — hand- 
some enough,  withal.  He  was  an 
acrobat.  Even  in  the  dim  light,  he 
carried  the  impression  of  great  mus- 
cular strength — of  grace  and  agility. 
For  a  moment  the  woman's  eyes  ran 
over  his  stocky  body :  then,  spas- 
modically clenching  her  hands,  she 
turned  quickly  to  the  boy  on  the  bed  ; 
and  she  moved  back  from  the  man,  and 
thereafter  regarded  him  watchfully. 

*^  Don't  make  no  difference  if  I  do 
wake  him,"  he  complained.  *'The  boy 
knows  me." 

"  But  he  don't  like  you." 

"  Aw,  Millie  !  "  said  he,  in  reproach. 
"Come  off!" 

"  I  seen  it  in  his  eyes,"  she  insisted. 

The  man  softly  laughed. 

"  Don't  you  laugh  no  more ! "  she 
flashed.     ''  You    can't    tell    a    mother 


68         THE        MOTHER 

what  she  sees  in  her  own  baby's  eyes. 
I  tell  you,  Jim,  he  don't  like  you.  He 
never  did." 

"  That's  all  fancy,  Millie.  Why,  he 
ain't  seen  me  in  three  year  !  And  you 
can't  see  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  a  four 
year  old  kid.  You're  too  fond  of  that 
boy,  anyhow,"  the  man  continued,  in- 
dignantly. "What's  got  into  you? 
You  ain't  forgot  that  winter  night  out 
there  in  Idaho,  have  you  ?  Don't  you 
remember  what  you  said  to  Dick  that 
night?  You  said  Dick  was  to  blame, 
Millie,  don't  you  remember  ?  Remem- 
ber the  doctor  coming  to  the  hotel? 
I'll  never  forget  how  you  went  on. 
Never  heard  a  woman  swear  like  you 
before.  Never  seen  one  go  on  like  you 
went  on.  And  when  you  hit  Dick, 
Millie,  for  what  you  said  he'd  done,  I 
felt    bad   for   Dick,    though   I   hadn't 


AT        MIDNIGHT        69 

much  cause  to  care  for  what  happened 
to  him.  Millie,  girl,  you  was  a  regular 
wildcat  when  the  doctor  told  you  what 
was  coming.  You  didn't  want  no  kid, 
then  I " 

''  Don't !  "  she  gasped.  ''  I  ain't  for- 
got. But  I'm  changed,  Jim — since 
then." 

He  moved  a  step  nearer. 

"  I  ain't  the  same  as  I  used  to  be  in 
them  days,"  she  went  on,  staring  at  the 
window,  and  through  the  window  to 
the  starry  night.  "  And  Dick's  dead, 
now.  I  don't  know,"  she  faltered  ;  "  it's 
all  sort  of — different." 

"  What's  gone  and  changed  you, 
Millie?" 

"  I  ain't  the  same  !  "  she  repeated. 

"  What's  changed  you  ?  " 

"And  I  ain't  been  the  same,"  she 
whispered,  "  since  I  got  the  boy  I  " 


70         THE        MOTHER 

In  the  pause,  he  took  her  hand.  She 
seemed  not  to  know  it — but  let  it  lie 
close  held  in  his  great  palm. 

"  And  you  won't  have  nothing  to  do 
with  me  ?  he  asked. 

"  I  can't,"  she  answered.  "  I  don't 
think  of  myself  no  more.  And  the 
boy — wouldn't  like  it." 

"  You  always  said  you  would,  if  it 
wasn't  for  Dick ;  and  Dick  ain't  here 
no  more.  There  ain't  no  harm  in 
loving  me  now."  He  tried  to  draw 
her  to  him.  "  Aw,  come  on ! "  he 
pleaded.     "  You  know  you  like  me." 

She  withdrew  her  hand — shrank  from 
him.  *'  Don't !  "  she  said.  ''  I  like  you, 
Jim.  You  know  I  always  did.  You 
was  always  good  to  me.  I  never  cared 
much  for  Dick.  Him  and  me  teamed 
up  pretty  well.  That  was  all.  It  was 
always  you,  Jim,  that  I  cared  for.    But, 


AT        MIDNIGHT        71 

somehow,  now,  I  wish  I'd  loved  Dick — 
more  than  I  did.  I  feel  different,  now. 
I  wish — oh,  I  wish — that  I'd  loved 
him  I " 

The  man  frowned. 

"  He's  dead,"  she  continued.  "  I 
can't  tell  him  nothing,  now.  The 
chance  is  gone.  But  I  wish  I'd  loved 
him  I  " 

"  He  never  done  much  for  you." 

"  Yes,  he  did,  Jim  I  "  she  answered, 
quickly.  "  He  done  all  a  man  can  do 
for  a  woman  I  " 

She  was  smiling — but  in  an  absent 
way.  The  man  started.  There  was  a 
light  in  her  eyes  he  had  never  seen 
before. 

''He  give  me,"  she  said,  ''the 
boy ! " 

"  You're  crazy  about  that  kid,"  the 
man    burst  out,   a   violent,   disgusted 


72         THE        MOTHER 

whisper.     "  You're   gone  out  of  your 
mind." 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  she  replied,  doggedly. 
•'  I'm  different  since  I  got  him.  That's 
all.  And  I'd  like  Dick  to  know  that 
I  look  at  him  different  since  he  died. 
I  can't  love  Dick.  I  never  could.  But 
I  could  thank  him  if  he  was  here.  Do 
you  mind  what  I  called  the  boy?  I 
don't  call  him  Claud  now.  I  call  him 
— Richard.  It's  all  I  can  do  to  show 
Dick  that  I'm  grateful." 

The  man  caught  his  breath — in 
angry  impatience.  ''  Millie,"  he 
warned,  ''the  boy'll  grow  up." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  eyes. 

"  He'll  grow  up  and  leave  you. 
What  you  going  to  do  then  ?  " 

''  I  don't  know,"  she  sighed.     "  Just 
— go  along." 
.      *'  You'll  be  all  alone,  Millie." 


AT        MIDNIGHT        73 

"  He  loves  me ! "  she  muttered. 
"  He'll  never  leave  me  I  " 

"  He's  got  to,  Millie.  He's  got  to  be 
a  man.     You  can't  keep  him.'^ 

"  Maybe  I  canH  keep  him,"  she  re- 
plied, in  a  passionate  undertone. 
"  Maybe  I  do  love  you.  Maybe  he'd 
get  to  love  you,  too.  But  look  at  him, 
Jim  !     See  where  he  lies  ?  " 

The  man  turned  towards  the  bed. 

"  It's  on  my  side,  Jim !  Under- 
stand? He  lies  there  always  till  I 
come  in.     Know  why  ?  " 

He  watched  her  curiously. 

"He'll  wake  up,  Jim,  when  I  lift 
him  over.  That's  what  he  wants. 
He'll  wake  up  and  say,  '  Is  that  you, 
mother  ?  '  And  he'll  be  asleep  again, 
God  bless  him !  before  I  can  tell  him 
that  it  is.  My  God  I  Jim,  I  can't  tell 
you  what  it  means  to  come  in  at  night 


74         THE        MOTHER 

and  find  him  lying  there.  That  little 
body  of  a  man  I  That  clean,  white 
soul  I  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  feel,  Jim. 
It's  something  a  man  can't  know. 
And  do  you  think  he'd  stand  for  you  ? 
He'd  say  he  would.  Oh,  he'd  say  he 
would !  He'd  look  in  my  eyes,  Jim, 
and  he'd  find  out  what  I  wanted  him 
to  say ;  and  he'd  say  it.  But,  Jim, 
he'd  be  hurt.  Understand?  He'd 
think  I  didn't  love  him  any  more. 
He's  only  a  child — and  he'd  think  I 
didn't  love  him.  Where'd  he  sleep, 
Jim?  Alone?  He  couldn't  do  it. 
Don't  you  see  f  I  can't  live  with  no- 
body, Jim.  And  I  don't  want  to.  I 
don't  care  for  myself  no  more.  I  used 
to,  in  them  days — when  you  and  me 
and  Dick  and  the  crowd  was  all  to- 
gether. But  I  don't — no  more  !  " 
The   man   stooped,    picked   a   small 


AT        MIDNIGHT        75 

stocking  from  the  floor,  stood  staring 
at  it. 

"  I'm  changed,"  the  woman  re- 
peated, "  since  I  got  the  boy." 

**  I  don't  know  what  you'll  do,  Mil- 
lie, when  he  grows  up." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  And  when  he  finds  out  ?  " 

"That's  what  I'm  afraid  of,"  she 
whispered,  hoarsely.  "Somebody  '11 
tell  him — some  day.  He  don't  know, 
now.  And  I  don't  want  him  to  know. 
He  ain't  our  kind.  Maybe  it's  because 
I  keep  him  here  alone.  Maybe  it's  be- 
cause he  don't  see  nobody.  Maybe  it's 
just  because  I  love  him  so.  I  don't 
know.  But  he  ain't  like  us.  It  would 
hurt  him  to  know.  And  I  can't  hurt 
him.     I  can't  I  " 

The  man  tossed  the  stocking 
away.     It  fell   upon   a   heap  of  little 


76         THE        MOTHER 

under-garments,  strewn  upon  the 
floor. 

'^  You're  a  fool,  Millie,"  said  he. 
"  I  tell  you,  he'll  leave  you.  He'll 
leave  you  cold — when  he  grows  up — 
and  another  woman  comes  along.'' 

She  raised  her  hand  to  stop  him. 
"  Don't  say  that ! "  she  moaned. 
"There  won't  be  no  other  woman. 
There  can't  be.  Seems  to  me  I'll  want 
to  kill  the  first  that  comes.  A  woman  ? 
What  woman  ?     There  won't  be  none." 

"  There's  got  to  be  a  woman." 

"What  woman?  There  ain't  a 
woman  in  the  world  fit  to — oh,"  she 
broke  off,  "  don't  talk  of  him — and  a 
woman ! " 

"  It'll  come,  Millie.  He's  a  man — 
and  there's  got  to  be  a  woman.  And 
she  won't  want  you.  And  you'll  be 
too  old,  then,  to " 


AT        MIDNIGHT        77 

The  boy  stirred. 

"  Hist !  "  she  commanded. 

They  waited.  An  arm  was  tossed — 
the  boy  smiled — there  was  a  sigh.  He 
was  sound  asleep  again. 

"  Millie  I  "  The  man  approached. 
She  straightened  to  resist  him.  "  You 
love  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

She  withdrew. 

"  You  want  to  marry  me?  " 

Still  she  withdrew  ;  but  he  overtook 
her,  and  caught  her  hand. .  She  was 
now  driven  to  a  corner — at  bay.  Her 
face  was  flushed ;  there  was  an  irres- 
olute light  in  her  eyes — the  light,  too, 
of  fear. 

"  Go  Vay !  "  she  gasped.  "  Leave  me 
alone ! " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"Don't!''  she  moaned.  "You'll 
wake  the  boy." 


78         THE        MOTHER 

"  Millie  I  "  he  whispered. 

"  Let  me  go,  Jim !  "  she  protested, 
weakly.  "  I  can't.  Oh,  leave  me 
alone  !  You'll  wake  the  boy.  I  can't. 
I'd  like  to.  I — I — I  want  to  marry 
you;  but  I " 

"  Aw,  come  on  !  "  he  pleaded,  draw- 
ing her  close.  And  he  suddenly  found 
her  limp  in  his  arms.  "  You  got  to 
marry  me  ! ''  he  whispered,  in  triumph. 
"  By  God  !  you  can't  help  yourself.  I 
got  you  !     I  got  you  I  " 

"  Oh,  let  me  go  ! " 

"  No,  I  won't,  Millie.  I'll  never  let 
you  go." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Jim  !  Jim — oh, 
don't  kiss  me  I  " 

The  boy  stirred  again — and  began  to 
mutter  in  his  sleep.  At  once  the 
woman  commanded  herself  She  stiff- 
ened— released     herself — pushed     the 


AT        MIDNIGHT        79 

man  away.  She  lifted  a  hand — until 
the  child  lay  quiet  once  more.  There 
was  meantime  breathless  silence.  Then 
she  pointed  imperiously  to  the  door. 
The  man  sullenly  held  his  place.  She 
tiptoed  to  the  door — opened  it :  again 
imperiously  gestured.  He  would  not 
stir. 

"  111  go,"  he  whispered,  "  if  you  tell 
me  I  can  come  back." 

The  boy  awoke — but  was  yet  blinded 
by  sleep  ;  and  the  room  was  dim-lit. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes.  The  man  and  the 
woman  stood  rigid  in  the  shadow. 

**  Is  it  you,  mother  ?  " 

There  was  no  resisting  her  command 
— her  flashing  eyes,  the  passionate  ges- 
ture. The  man  moved  to  the  door, 
muttering  that  he  would  come  back — 
and  disappeared.  She  closed  the  door 
after  him. 


8o         THE        MOTHER 

*'  Yes,  dear,"  she  answered.  '^  It  is 
your  mother." 

"  Was  there  a  man  with  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  Lord  Wychester,"  she  said, 
brightly,  ^'  seeing  me  home  from  the 
party." 

''  Oh  !  "  he  yawned. 

"  Go  to  sleep." 

He  fell  asleep  at  once.  The  stair 
creaked.  The  tenement  was  again 
quiet.  .  .  . 

He  was  lying  in  his  mother's  place  in 
the  bed.  .  .  .  She  looked  out  upon 
the  river.  Somewhere,  far  below  in  the 
darkness,  the  current  still  ran  swirling 
to  the  sea — where  the  lights  go  diflPerent 
ways.  .  .  .  The  boy  was  lying  in  his 
mother's  place.  And  before  she  lifted 
him,  she  took  his  warm  little  hand, 
and  kissed  his  brow,  where  the  dark 


AT        MIDNIGHT        8i 

curls  lay  damp  with  the  sweat  of  sleep. 
For  a  long,  long  time,  she  sat  watch- 
ing him  through  a  mist  of  glad  tears. 
The  sight  of  his  face,  the  outline  of  his 
body  under  the  white  coverlet,  the 
touch  of  his  warm  flesh :  all  this 
thrilled  her  inexpressibly.  Had  she 
been  devout,  she  would  have  thanked 
God  for  the  gift  of  a  son — and  would 
have  found  relief  .  .  .  When  she 
crept  in  beside  him,  she  drew  him  to 
her,  tenderly  still  closer,  until  he  was 
all  contained  in  her  arms ;  and  she 
forgot  all  else — and  fell  asleep,  un- 
troubled. 


CAME,  then,  into  the  lives  of  these 
two,  to  work  wide  and  imme- 
diate changes,  the  Rev.  John 
Fithian,  a  curate  of  the  Church  of  the 
Lifted  Cross — a  tall,  free-moving,  deli- 
cately spare  figure,  clad  in  spotless  black, 
with  a  hint  of  fashion  about  it,  a  dull 
gold  crucifix  lying  suspended  upon  the 
breast :  pale,  long  of  face,  the  eye- 
sockets  deep  and  shadowy ;  hollow- 
cheeked,  the  bones  high  and  faintly 
82 


A     MEETING    BY    CHANCE  83 

touched  with  red  ;  with  black,  straight, 
damp  hair,  brushed  back  from  a  smooth 
brow  and  falling  in  the  perfection  of 
neatness  to  the  collar — the  whole  severe 
and  forbidding,  indeed,  but  for  saving 
gray  eyes,  wherein  there  lurked,  be- 
hind the  patient  agony,  often  displac- 
ing it,  a  tender  smile,  benignant,  com- 
prehending, infinitely  sympathetic,  by 
which  the  gloomy  exterior  was  light- 
ened and  in  some  surprising  way  grate- 
fully explained. 

By  chance,  on  the  first  soft  spring 
day  of  that  year,  the  Rev.  John  Fithian, 
returning  from  the  Neighbourhood  Set- 
tlement, where  he  had  delighted  him- 
self with  good  deeds,  done  of  pure 
purpose,  came  near  the  door  of  the  Box 
Street  tenement,  distributing  smiles, 
pennies,  impulsive,  genuine  caresses,  to 


84         THE        MOTHER 

the  children  as  he  went,  tipping  their 
faces,  patting  their  heads,  all  in  the 
rare,  unquestioned  way,  being  not  alien 
to  the  manner  of  the  poor.  A  street 
piano,  at  the  corner,  tinkled  an  air  to 
which  a  throng  of  ragged,  lean  little 
girls  danced  in  the  yellow  sunshine, 
dodging  trucks  and  idlers  and  impa- 
tient pedestrians  with  unconcern,  col- 
liding and  tripping  with  utmost  good 
nature.  The  curate  was  arrested  by 
the  voice  of  a  child,  singing  to  the 
corner  accompaniment — low,  in  the 
beginning,  brooding,  tentative,  but  in 
a  moment  rising  sure  and  clear  and 
tender.  It  was  not  hard  for  the  Rev. 
John  Fithian  to  slip  a  cassock  and 
surplice  upon  this  wistful  child,  to 
give  him  a  background  of  lofty  arches 
and  stained  windows,  to  frame  the 
whole   in  shadows.     And,   lo !   in  the 


A     MEETING     BY    CHANCE  85 

chancel  of  the  Church  of  the  Lifted 
Cross  there  stood  an  angel,  sing- 
ing. 

The  boy  looked  up,  a  glance  of  sus- 
picion, of  fear ;  but  he  was  at  once 
reassured :  there  was  no  guile  in  the 
smiling  gray  eyes  of  the  questioner. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  he  answered,  '*'  for 
my  mother.     She  will  be  home  soon.'* 

In  a  swift,  penetrating  glance,  dart- 
ing far  and  deep,  dwelling  briefly,  the 
curate  discovered  the  pathos  of  the 
child's  life — the  unknowing,  patient 
outlook,  the  vague  sense  of  pain,  the 
bewilderment,  the  wistful  melancholy, 
the  hopeful  determination. 

"  You,  too  !  "  he  sighed. 

The  expression  of  kindred  was  not 
comprehended ;  but  the  boy  was  not 
disquieted  by  the  sigh,  by  the  sudden 
extinguishment  of  the  beguiling  smile. 


86         THE         MOTHER 

"  She  has  gone,"  he  continued,  ^'  to 
the  wedding  of  Sir  Arthur  Coll  and 
Miss  Stillison.  She  will  have  a  very 
good  time." 

The  curate  came  to  himself  with  a 
start  and  a  gasp. 

"  She's  a  bridesmaid,"  the  boy  added. 

'^  Oh  !  "  ejaculated  the  curate. 

''  Why  do  you  say,  ^  Oh  ! '  "  the  boy 
complained,  frowning.  "  Everybody 
says  that,"  he  went  on,  wistfully ;  "  and 
I  don't  know  why." 

The  curate  was  a  gentleman — acute 
and  courteous.  "  A  touch  of  indiges- 
tion," he  answered,  promptly,  laying  a 
white  hand  on  his  black  waistcoat. 
''  Oh  !     There  it  is  again  !  " 

"Stomach  ache?" 

"  Well,  you  might  call  it  that." 

The  boy  was  much  concerned.  "  If 
you  come  up-stairs,"  said  he,  anxiously, 


A    MEETING    BY    CHANCE  87 

"  1^11  give  you  some  medicine.    Mother 
keeps  it  for  me." 

Thus,  presently,  the  curate  found 
himself  top-floor  rear,  in  the  room  that 
overlooked  the  broad  river,  the  roofs 
of  the  city  beyond,  the  misty  hills : 
upon  which  the  fading  sunshine  now 
fell.  And  having  gratefully  swallowed 
the  dose,  with  a  broad,  persistent  smile, 
he  was  given  a  seat  by  the  window, 
that  the  beauty  of  the  day,  the  com- 
panionship of  the  tiny  craft  on  the 
river,  the  mystery  of  the  far-off  places, 
might  distract  and  comfort  him.  From 
the  boy,  sitting  upright  and  prim  on 
the  extreme  edge  of  a  chair,  his  feet 
on  the  rung,  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
proceeded  a  stream  of  amiable  chat- 
ter— not  the  less  amiable  for  being 
grave — to  which  the  curate,  compelled 
to  his  best  behavior,  listened  with  at- 


88         THE        MOTHER 

tention  as  amiable,  as  grave :  and  this 
concerned  the  boats,  afloat  below,  the 
lights  on  the  river,  the  child's  mother, 
the  simple  happenings  of  his  secluded 
life.  So  untaught  was  this  courtesy, 
spontaneous,  native — so  did  it  spring 
from  natural  wish  and  perception — 
that  the  curate  was  soon  more  mys- 
tified than  entertained  ;  and  so  did  the 
curate's  smile  increase  in  gratification 
and  sympathy  that  the  child  was  pres- 
ently off*  the  chair,  lingering  half 
abashed  in  the  curate's  neighbourhood, 
soon  seated  familiarly  upon  his  knee, 
toying  with  the  dull  gold  crucifix. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked. 

"  It  is  the  symbol,"  the  curate  an- 
swered, "of  the  sacrifice  of  our  dear 
Lord  and  Saviour." 

There  was  no  meaning  in  the  words ; 
but  the  boy  held  the  cross  very  ten- 


A     MEETING     BY     CHANCE   89 

derly,  and  looked  long  upon  the  face 
of  the  Man  there  in  torture — and  was 
grieved  and  awed  by  the  agony.  .  .  . 

In  the  midst  of  this,  the  boy's 
mother  entered.  She  stopped  dead  be- 
yond the  threshold — warned  by  the 
unexpected  presence  to  be  upon  her 
guard.  Her  look  of  amazement 
changed  to  a  scowl  of  suspicion.  The 
curate  put  the  boy  from  his  knee.  He 
rose — embarrassed.  There  was  a  space 
of  ominous  silence. 

"  What  you  doing  here?  "  the  woman 
demanded. 

"  Trespassing." 

She  was  puzzled — by  the  word,  the 
smile,  the  quiet  voice.  The  whole  was 
a  new,  nonplussing  experience.  Her 
suspicion  was  aggravated. 

"What  you   been  telling  the  boy? 


90         THE        MOTHER 

Eh?  What  you  been  saying  about 
me?  Hear  me?  Ain't  you  got  no 
tongue  ? "  She  turned  to  the  fright- 
ened child.  "Richard,"  she  contin- 
ued, her  voice  losing  all  its  quality  of 
anger,  "  what  lies  has  this  man  been 
telling  you  about  your  poor  mother  ?  " 

The  boy  kept  a  bewildered  silence. 

"  What  you  been  lying  about  ?  '^  the 
woman  exclaimed,  advancing  upon  the 
curate,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"  I  have  been  telling,"  he  answered, 
still  gravely  smiling,  "  the  truth." 

Her  anger  was  halted — but  she  was 
not  pacified. 

"  Telling,"  the  curate  repeated,  with 
a  little  pause,  "  the  truth." 

"  You  been  talking  about  me,  eh  ?  " 

"  No  ;  it  was  of  your  late  husband." 

She  started. 

"  I  am  a  curate  of  the  Church  of  the 


A     MEETING     BY     CHANCE   91 

Lifted  Cross,"  the  curate  continued, 
with  unruffled  composure,  "  and  1 
have  been  telling  the  exact  truth  con- 
cerning   '^ 

"  You  been  lying ! "  the  woman 
broke  in.     "  Yes,  you  have  !  " 

''No — not  so,"  he  insisted.  "The 
exact  truth  concerning  the  funeral  of 
Dick  Slade  from  the  Church  of  the 
Lifted  Cross.  Your  son  has  told  me 
of  his  father's  death — of  the  funeral. 
And  I  have  told  your  son  that  I  dis- 
tinctly remember  the  occasion.  I  have 
told  him,  moreover,"  he  added,  putting 
a  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  his  eyes 
faintly  twinkling,  "  that  his  father  was 
— ah — as  I  recall  him — of  most  distin- 
guished appearance." 

She  was  completely  disarmed. 

When,  after  an   agreeable   interval, 


92         THE        MOTHER 

the  Rev.  John  Fithian  took  his  leave, 
the  boy's  mother  followed  him  from 
the  room,  and  closed  the  door  upon 
the  boy.  ''  I'm  glad,"  she  faltered, 
"  that  you  didn't  give  me  away.  It 
was — kind.  But  I'm  sorry  you  lied — 
like  that.  You  didn't  have  to,  you 
know.  He's  only  a  child.  It's  easy 
to  fool  him.  You  wouldn't  have  to 
lie.  But  I  got  to  lie.  It  makes 
him  happy — and  there's  things  he 
mustn't  know.  He  must  be  happy. 
I  can't  stand  it  when  he  ain't.  It 
hurts  me  so.  But,"  she  added,  looking 
straight  into  his  eyes,  gratefully,  ''  you 
didn't  have  to  lie.  And — it  was  kind." 
Her  eyes  fell.     ^^  It  was — awful  kind." 

"  I  may  come  again  ?  " 

She  stared  at  the  floor.  "  Come 
again  ? "  she  muttered.  ^'  I  don't 
know." 


A     MEETING    BY     CHANCE   93 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  come." 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked, 
looking  up.     "  It  ain't  me,  is  it?  " 

The  curate  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?  I 
thought  you  was  from  the  Society.  I 
thought  you  was  an  agent  come  to 
take  him  away  because  I  wasn't  fit  to 
keep  him.  But  it  ain't  that.  And  it 
ain't  me.  What  is  it  you  want, anyhow?" 

"  To  come  again.'* 

She  turned  away.  He  patiently 
waited.  All  at  once  she  looked  into 
his  eyes,  long,  deep,  intensely — a  scru- 
tiny of  his  very  soul. 

"  You  got  a  good  name  to  keep,  ain't 
you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     *'  And  you  ?  " 

"  It  don't  matter  about  me." 

"  And  I  may  come  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered. 


AFTER  that  the  curate  came  often 
to  the  room  in  the  Box  Street 
tenement ;  but  beyond  the  ten- 
ants of  top  floor  rear  he  did  not  allow  the 
intimacy  to  extend — not  even  to  em- 
brace the  quaintly  love-lorn  Mr.  Poddle. 
It  was  now  summer ;  the  window  was 
open  to  the  west  wind,  blowing  in  from 
the  sea.  Most  the  curate  came  at  even- 
ing, when  the  breeze  was  cool  and  clean, 
and  the  lights  began  to  twinkle  in  the 
94 


RENUNCIATION      95 

gathering  shadows :  then  to  sit  at  the 
window,  describing  unrealities,  not  con- 
ceived in  the  world  of  the  listeners ; 
and  these  new  and  beautiful  thoughts, 
melodiously  voiced  in  the  twilight, 
filled  the  hours  with  wonder  and  strange 
delight.  Sometimes,  the  boy  sang — 
his  mother,  too,  and  the  curate :  a 
harmony  of  tender  voices,  lifted  softly. 
And  once,  when  the  songs  were  all 
sung,  and  the  boy  had  slipped  away  to 
the  comfort  of  Mr.  Poddle.,  who  was 
now  ill  abed  with  his  restless  lungs,  the 
curate  turned  resolutely  to  the  woman. 

"  I  want  the  boy's  voice,"  he  said. 

She  gave  no  sign  of  agitation.  "  His 
voice?"  she  asked,  quietly.  "Ain't 
the  boy's  self  nothing  to  your 
church?" 

"  Not,"  he  answered,  "  to  the 
church." 


96        THE        MOTHER 

"  Not  to  you  ?'^ 

"  It  is  very  much,"  he  said,  gravely, 
"  to  me." 

^'Well?" 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows — in  amazed 
comprehension.  ^'  I  must  say,  then," 
he  said,  bending  eagerly  towards  her, 
^Hhat  I  want  the  boy?" 

"  The  boy,"  she  answered. 

For  a  little  while  she  was  silent — 
vacantly  contemplating  the  bare  floor. 
There  had  been  no  revelation.  She 
was  not  taken  unaware.  She  had 
watched  his  purpose  form.  Long  be- 
fore, she  had  perceived  the  issue  ap- 
proaching, and  had  bravely  met  it. 
But  it  was  all  now  definite  and  near. 
She  found  it  hard  to  command  her 
feeling — bitter  to  cut  the  trammels  of 
her  love  for  the  child. 

"You  got  to  pay,  you  know,"  she 


RENUNCIATION     97 

said,  looking  up.  "Boy  sopranos  is 
scarce.     You  can't  have  him  cheap." 

"Of  course!"  he  hastened  to  say. 
"  The  church  will  pay." 

"  Money  ?     It  ain't  money  I  want." 

To  this  there  was  nothing  to  say. 
The  curate  was  in  the  dark — and 
quietly  awaited  enlightenment. 

"Take  him!"  she  burst  out,  rising. 
"  My  God  !  just  you  take  him.  That's 
all  I  want.  Understand  me  ?  I  want 
to  get  rid  of  him." 

He  watched  her  in  amazement.  For  a 
time  she  wandered  about  the  room, 
distraught,  quite  aimless :  now  tragic- 
ally pausing ;  now  brushing  her  hand 
over  her  eyes— a  gesture  of  weari- 
ness and  despair.  Then  she  faced 
him. 

"Take  him,"  she  said,  her  voice 
hoarse.     "Take   him   away  from   me. 


98         THE        MOTHER 

I  ain't  fit  to  have  him.  Understand  ? 
He's  got  to  grow  up  into  a  man.  And 
I  can't  teach  him  how.  Take  him. 
Take  him  altogether.  Make  him — 
like  yourself.  Before  you  come,"  she 
proceeded,  now  feverishly  pacing  the 
floor,  "I  never  knew  that  men  was 
good.  No  man  ever  looked  in  my 
eyes  the  way  you  do.  I  know  them — 
oh,  I  know  them  !  And  when  my  boy 
grows  up,  I  want  him  to  look  in  the 
eyes  of  women  the  way  you  look — in 
mine.  Just  that !  Only  that !  If  only, 
oh,  if  only  my  son  will  look  in  the 
eyes  of  women  the  way  you  look  in 
mine  !  Understand  ?  I  want  him  to. 
But  I  can't  teach  him  how.  I  don't 
know  enough.     I  ain't  good  enough." 

The  curate  rose. 

"  You  can't  take  his  voice  and  leave 
bis  soul,"  she  went  on.     "  You  got  to 


RENUNCIATION      99 

take  his  soul.     You  got  to  make  it — 
like  your  own." 

"  Not  like  mine  !  " 

^'  Just,"  she  said,  passionately,  "  like 
yours.  Don't  you  warn  me ! "  she 
flashed.  ''  I  know  the  difference  be- 
tween your  soul  and  mine.  I  know 
that  when  his  soul  is  like  yours  he 
won't  love  me  no  more.  But  I  can't 
help  that.  I  got  to  do  without  him. 
I  got  to  live  my  life — and  let  him  live 
his.  It's  the  way  with  mothers  and 
sons.  God  help  the  mothers  !  It's  the 
way  of  the  world.  .  .  .  And  he'll  go 
with  you,"  she  added.  "  I'll  get  him 
so  he'll  be  glad  to  go.  It  won't  be  nice 
to  do — but  I  can  do  it.  Maybe  you 
think  I  can't.  Maybe  you  think  I 
love  him  too  much.  It  ain't  that  I  love 
him  too  much.  It's  because  I  love  him 
enough  !  " 


loo       THE        MOTHER 

"  You  offer  the  boy  to  me  ?  " 
"  Will  you  take  him — voice  and  soul?  " 
*'  I  will  take  him,"  said  the  curate, 
*'  soul  and  voice." 

She  began  at  once  to  practice  upon 
the  boy's  love  for  her — this  skillfully, 
persistently  :  without  pity  for  herself 
or  him.  She  sighed,  wept,  sat  gloomy 
for  hours  together :  nor  would  she 
explain  her  sorrow,  but  relentlessly 
left  it  to  deal  with  his  imagination, 
by  which  it  was  magnified  and 
touched  with  the  horror  of  mystery. 
It  was  not  hard — thus  to  feign  sadness, 
terror,  despair :  to  hint  misfortune, 
parting,  unalterable  love.  Nor  could 
the  boy  withstand  it ;  by  this  depres- 
sion he  was  soon  reduced  to  a  condi- 
tion of  apprehension  and  grief  wherein 
self-sacrifice  was  at  one  with  joyful 
opportunity.     Dark  days,  these — hours 


R  E  N  U  N  C  I  ATI  p;N.,.i.os,.,  . 

of  agony,  premonition,  fearful  expecta- 
tion. And  when  they  had  sufficiently 
wrought  upon  him,  she  was  ready  to 
proceed. 

One  night  she  took  him  in  her  lap, 
in  the  old  close  way,  in  which  he 
loved  to  be  held,  and  sat  rocking,  for 
a  time,  silently. 

"  Let  us  talk,  dear,"  she  said. 

'^  I  think  I'm  too  sick,"  he  sighed. 
"  I  just  want  to  lie  here — and  not  talk." 

He  had  but  expressed  h^r  own  de- 
sire— to  have  him  lie  there  :  not  to  talk, 
but  just  to  feel  him  lying  in  her  arms. 

"  We  must,"  she  said. 

Something  in  her  voice — something 
distinguishable  from  the  recent  days 
as  deep  and  real — aroused  the  boy. 
He  touched  the  lashes  of  her  eyes — 
and  found  them  wet. 

"Why  are  you  crying?"  he  asked. 


lo?       THE        MOTHER 

''  Oh,  tell  me,  mother !  Tell  me 
now  !  " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  I'm  sick,''  he  muttered.  ''  I— I— 
think  I'm  very  sick." 

"  Something  has  happened,  dear," 
she  said.  ''I'm  going  to  tell  you 
what."  She  paused — and  in  the 
pause  felt  his  body  grow  tense  in 
a  familiar  way.  For  a  moment  the 
prospect  frightened  her.  She  felt, 
vaguely,  that  she  was  playing  with 
that  which  was  infinitely  delicate — 
which  might  break  in  her  very  hands, 
and  leave  her  desolate.  *'  You  know, 
dear,"  she  continued,  faltering,  "we 
used  to  be  very  rich.  But  we're  not, 
any  more."  It  was  a  poor  lie — she 
realized  that :  and  was  half  ashamed. 
ii  We're  very  poor,  now,"  she  went  on, 
hurriedly.     "  A   man   broke   into   the 


RENUNCIATION    103 

bank  and  stole  all  your  mother's  gold 
and  diamonds  and  lovely  dresses. 
She  hasn't  anything  —  any  more." 
She  had  conceived  a  vast  contempt 
for  the  lie ;  she  felt  that  it  was  a 
weak,  unpracticed  thing  —  but  she 
knew  that  it  was  sufficient :  for  he 
had  never  yet  doubted  her.  *'  So  I 
don't  know  what  she'll  do,"  she  con- 
eluded,  weakly.  ^'  She  will  have  to 
stop  having  good  times,  I  guess.  She 
will  have  to  go  to  work." 

He  straightened  in  her  lap.  "  No, 
no  !  "  he  cried,  gladly.     "  I'll  work  !  " 

Her  impulse  was  to  express  her  de- 
light in  his  manliness,  her  triumphant 
consciousness  of  his  love — to  kiss  him, 
to  hug  him  until  he  cried  out  with 
pain.  But  she  restrained  all  this — 
harshly,  pitilessly.  She  had  no  mercy 
upon  herself. 


I04       THE        MOTHER 

"  I'll  work !  "  he  repeated. 

''How?"  she  asked.  ''You  don't 
know  how.'' 

"  Teach  me." 

She  laughed — an  ironical  little 
laugh :  designed  to  humiliate  him. 
"  Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  don't  know 
how  to  teach  you  !  " 

He  sighed. 

"  But,"  she  added,  significantly, 
*'  the  curate  knows." 

"  Then,"  said  he,  taking  hope,  "  the 
curate  will  teach  me." 

"  Yes  ;  but " 

"But  what?  Tell  me  quick, 
mother  !  " 

"  Well,"  she  hesitated,  "  the  curate  is 
so  busy.  Anyhow,  dear,"  she  con- 
tinued, "I  would  have  to  work.  We 
are  very  poor.  You  see,  dear,  it  takes 
a  great   deal   of  money   to   buy   new 


RENUNCIATION    105 

clothes  for  you.  And,  then,  dear,  you 
see '^ 

He  waited — somewhat  disturbed  by 
the  sudden  failure  of  her  voice.  It 
was  all  becoming  bitter  to  her,  now  ; 
she  found  it  hard  to  continue. 

"  You  see,"  she  gasped,  "  you  eat — 
quite  a  bit." 

*'  I'll  not  eat  much,"  he  promised. 
*^  And  I'll  not  want  new  clothes.  And 
it  won't  take  long  for  the  curate  to 
teach  me  how  to  work." 

She  would  not  agree. 

"  Tell  me  I  "  he  commanded. 

*^  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  but  the  curate 
says  he  wants  you  to  live  with  him." 

"  Would  you  come,  too  ?  " 

*^  No,"  she  answered. 

He  did  not  yet  comprehend. 
"Would  I  go— alone?" 

"  Yes." 


io6       THE        MOTHER 

"All  alone?" 

"  Alone ! " 

Quiet  fell  upon  all  the  world — in  the 
twilighted  room,  in  the  tenement,  in  the 
falling  night  without,  where  no  breeze 
moved.  The  child  sought  to  get  closer 
within  his  mother's  arms,  nearer  to  her 
bosom — then  stirred  no  more.  The 
lights  were  flashing  into  life  on  the 
river — wandering  aimlessly  :  but  yet 
drifting  to  the  sea.  .  .  .  Some  one 
stumbled  past  the  door — grumbling 
maudlin  wrath. 

*'  There  is  no  other  way,"  the  mother 
said. 

There  was  no  response — a  shiver, 
subsiding  at  once  :  no  more  than  that. 

"  And  I  would  go  to  see  you — quite 
often." 

She  tried  to  see  his  face ;  but  it  was 
hid  against  her. 


RENUNCIATION     107 

"  It  would  be  better,"  she  whispered, 
"  for  you." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  he  sobbed,  sitting  back 
in  her  lap,  "  what  would  you  do  with- 
out me?" 

It  was  a  crucial  question — so  appeal- 
ing in  unselfish  love,  so  vividly  protray- 
ing  her  impending  desolation,  that  for 
an  instant  her  resolution  departed. 
What  would  she  do  without  him?  God 
knew  !     But  she  commanded  herself. 

"  I  would  not  have  to  work,"  she 
said. 

He  turned  her  face  to  the  light — 
looked  deep  in  her  eyes,  searching  for 
the  truth.  She  met  his  glance  without 
wavering.  Then,  discerning  the  effect, 
deliberately,  when  his  eyes  were  alight 
with  filial  love  and  concern,  at  the 
moment  when  the  sacrifice  was  most 
clear  and  most  poignant,  she  lied. 


lo8       THE        MOTHER 

"  I  would  be  happier/^  she  said, 
"  without  you." 

A  moan  escaped  him. 

"  Will  you  go  with  the  curate  ?  "  she 
asked. 

''  Yes.'' 
[   He  fell  back  upon  her  bosom.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  delay.  Twas  all  done 
in  haste.  The  night  came.  Gently  the 
curate  took  the  child  from  her  arms. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said. 

"  I  said  I  would  not  cry,  mother,"  he 
faltered.     '^  I  am  not  crying." 

"  Good-bye,  dear." 

"  Mother,  I  am  not  crying." 

"  You  are  very  brave,"  she  said,  dis- 
covering his  wish.  '*  Good-bye.  Be  a 
good  boy." 

He  took  the  curate's  hand.  They 
moved  to  the  door — but  there  turned 


RENUNCIATION    109 

and  lingered.  While  the  child  looked 
upon  his  mother,  bravely  calling  a 
smile  to  his  face,  that  she  might  be 
comforted,  there  crept  into  his  eyes, 
against  his  will,  some  reproach.  Per- 
ceiving this,  she  staggered  towards  him, 
but  halted  at  the  table,  which  she 
clutched :  and  there  stood,  her  head 
hanging  forward,  her  body  swaying. 
Then  she  levelled  a  finger  at  the 
curate. 

"  Take  him  away,  you  damn  fool !  '^ 
she  screamed. 


s 


EVEN  o'clock  struck.  It  made  no 
impression  upon  her.  Eight 
o'clock — nine  o'clock.  It  was 
now  dark.  Ten  o'clock.  She  did  not 
hear.  Still  at  the  window,  her  elbow  on 
the  sill,  her  chin  resting  in  her  hand, 
she  kept  watch  on  the  river — but  did  not 
see  the  river :  but  saw  the  sea,  wind- 
tossed  and  dark,  where  the  lights  go  wide 
apart.  Eleven  o'clock.  Ghostly  moon- 
light filled  the  room.  The  tenement, 
no 


IN      THE      CURRENT    III 

restless  in  the  summer  heat,  now  sighed 
and  fell  asleep.  Twelve  o'clock.  She 
had  not  moved  :  nor  dared  she  move. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door — a 
quick  step  behind  her.  She  turned  in 
alarm. 

"  Millie ! '' 

She  rose.  Voice  and  figure  were  well 
known  to  her.  She  started  forward — 
but  stopped  dead. 

"  Is  it  you,  Jim?  "  she  faltered. 

"Yes,  Millie.  It*s  me — come  back. 
You  don't  feel  the  way  you  did  before, 
do  you,  girl  ?  "  He  suddenly  subdued 
his  voice — as  though  recollecting  a  cau- 
tion. "You  ain't  going  to  send  me 
away,  are  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Go  'way ! "  she  complained.  "  Leave 
me  alone." 

He  came  nearer. 

"  Give  me  a  show,  Jim,"  she  begged. 


112       THE        MOTHER 

*'  Go  Vay.  It  ain't  fair  to  come — now. 
Hear  me  ?  '^  she  cried,  in  protest  against 
his  nearer  approach,  her  voice  rising 
shrilly.     ''  It  ain't  fair " 

"Hist!"  he  interrupted.  "You'll 
wake  the " 

She  laughed  harshly.  "Wake  what?" 
she  mocked.  "Eh,  Jim?  What'll  I 
wake?" 

"Why,  Millie!"  he  exclaimed. 
''  You'll  wake  the  boy." 

"  Boy  !  "  she  laughed.  "  What  boy  ? 
There  ain't  no  boy.  Look  here  !  "  she 
cried,  rushing  impetuously  to  the  bed, 
throwing  back  the  coverlet,  wildly  toss- 
ing the  pillows  to  the  floor.  "  What'll 
I  wake  ?  Eh,  Jim  ?  Where's  the  boy 
I'll  wake?"  She  turned  upon  him. 
"  What  you  saying  '  Hist ! '  for  ?  Hist  1 " 
she  mocked,  with  a  laugh.  "  Talk  as 
loud  as  you  like,  Jim.    You  don't  need 


IN      THE      CURRENT    113 

to  care  what  you  say  or  how  you  say  it. 
There  ain't  nobody  here  to  mind  you. 
For  I  tell  you,"  she  stormed,  ^'  there 
ain't  no  boy — no  more  I  " 

He  caught  her  hand. 

"  Let  go  my  hand  I  "  she  commanded. 
"  Keep  off,  Jim  !  I  ain't  in  no  temper 
to  stand  it — to-night." 

He  withdrew.  *'  Millie,"  he  asked, 
in  distress,  "the  boy  ain't " 

"Dead?"  she  laughed.  "No.  I 
give  him  away.  He  was  different  from 
us.  I  didn't  have  no  right  to  keep 
him.  I  give  him  to  a  parson.  Be- 
cause," she  added,  defiantly,  "  I  wasn't 
fit  to  bring  him  up.  And  he  ain't  here 
no  more,"  she  sighed,  blankly  sweep- 
ing the  moonlit  room.  "  I'm  all  alone 
— now." 

"  Poor  girl !  "  he  muttered. 

She  was  tempted  by  this  sympathy. 


114       THE        MOTHER 

''Go  home,  Jim,"  she  said.  ''  It  ain't 
fair  to  stay.  I'm  all  alone,  now — and 
it  ain't  treating  me  right.'' 

"  Millie,"  he  answered,  "  you  ain't 
treating  yourself  right." 

She  flung  out  her  arms — in  dissent 
and  hopelessness. 

"  No,  you  ain't,"  he  continued. 
"You've  give  him  up.  You're  all 
alone.  You  can't  go  on — alone.  Millie, 
girl,"  he  pleaded,  softly,  "  I  want  you. 
Come  to  me !  " 

She  wavered. 

"  Come  to  me ! "  he  repeated,  his 
voice  tremulous,  his  arms  extended. 
"  You're  all  alone.  You've  lost  him. 
Come  to  me  !  " 

"Lost  him?"  she  mused.  "No — 
not  that.  If  I'd  lost  him,  Jim,  I'd  take 
you.  If  ever  he  looked  in  my  eyes — 
as  if  I'd  lost  him — I'd  take  you.     I've 


IN      THE      CURRENT    115 

give  him  up;  but  I  ain't  lost  him. 
Maybe,"  she  proceeded,  eagerly,  ''  when 
the  time  comes,  he'll  not  give  me  up. 
He  loves  me,  Jim ;  he'll  not  forget.  I 
^know  he's  different  from  us.  You 
can't  tell  a  mother  nothing  about  such 
things  as  that.  God  !  "  she  muttered, 
clasping  her  hands,  "  how  strangely 
different  he  is.  And  every  day  he'll 
change.  Every  day  he'll  be — more 
different.  That's  what  I  want.  That's 
why  I  give  him  up.  To  make  him — 
more  different !  But  maybe,"  she  con- 
tinued, her  voice  rising  with  the  in- 
tensity of  her  feeling,  ^'  when  he  grows 
up,  and  the  time  comes — maybe,  Jim, 
when  he  can't  be  made  no  more  differ- 
ent— maybe,  when  I  go  to  him,  man 
grown — are  you  listening  ? — maybe, 
when  I  ask  him  if  he  loves  me,  he'll 
remember !     Maybe,  he'll  take  me  in. 


ii6       THE        MOTHER 

Lost  him  ?"  she  asked.  *' How  do  you 
know  that  ?  Go  to  you,  Jim  ?  Go  to 
you,  now — when  he  might  take  me  in  if 
I  wait  ?  I  can't !  Don't  you  under- 
stand? When  the  time  comes,  he 
might  ask  me — where  you  was." 

*'  You're  crazy,  Millie,"  the  man  pro- 
tested.    "  You're  just  plain  crazy." 

^' Crazy?  Maybe,  I  am.  To  love 
and  hope  !  Crazy  ?  Maybe,  I  am.  But, 
Jim,  mothers  is  all  that  way.'* 

"  All  that  way  ?  "  he  asked,  regard- 
ing her  with  a  speculative  eye. 

"  Mothers,"  she  repeated,  "  is  all  that 
way." 

*^  Well,"  said  he,  swiftly  advancing, 
"  lovers  isn't." 

*^  Keep  back  !  "  she  cried. 

''  No,  I  won't." 

"  You'll  make  a  cat  of  me.  I  warn 
you,  Jim ! " 


IN      THE      CU  RRENT    117 

*' You  can't  keep  me  off.  Yousaidyou 
loved  me.  You  do  love  me.  You  can't 
help  yourself.     You  got  to  marry  me." 

She  retreated.  ^^  Leave  me  alone  !  " 
she  screamed.  ^'  I  can't.  .  Don't  you 
see  how  it  is  ?  Quit  that,  now,  Jim ! 
You  ain't  fair.  TaJie  your  arms  away. 
God  help  me !  I  love  you,  you  great 
big  brute !  You  know  I  do.  You 
ain't  fair.  .  .  .  Stop  I  You  hurt  me." 
She  was  now  in  his  arms — but  still  re- 
sisting. "  Leave  me  alone,"  she 
whimpered.  "  You  hurt  me.  You  ain't 
fair.  You  know  I  love  you — and  you 
ain't  fair.  .  .  .  Oh,  God  forgive  me  I 
Don't  do  that  again,  Jim.  Stop  !  Let 
me  go.  For  God's  sake,  stop  kissing 
me  !  I  like  you,  Jim.  I  ain't  denying 
that.  But  let  me  go.  .  .  .  Please, 
Jim !  Don't  hold  me  so  tight.  It 
ain't  fair.  .  .  .    Oh,  it  ain't  fair.  ..." 


ii8       THE         MOTHER 

She  sank  against  his  broad  breast ; 
and  there  she  lay  helpless — bitterly 
sobbing. 

"  Don't  cry,  Millie  !  "  he  whispered. 

Still  she  sobbed. 

''  Oh,  don't  cry,  girl !  "  he  repeated, 
tenderly.  "  It's  all  right.  I  won't 
hurt  you.  You  love  me,  and  I  love 
you.  That's  all  right,  Millie.  What's 
the  matter  with  you,  girl?  Lift  your 
face,  won't  you?" 

''  No,  no  !  " 

^' Why  not,  Millie?" 

*'  I  don't  know,"  she  whispered.  "  I 
think  I'm — ashamed." 

There  was  no  longer  need  to  hold 
her  fast.  His  arms  relaxed.  She  did 
not  move  from  them.  And  while  they 
stood  thus,  in  the  moonlight,  falling 
brightly  through  the  window,  he 
stroked  her  hair,  murmuring,  the  while, 


IN      THE      CURRENT    119 

all  the  reassuring  words  at  his  com- 
mand. 

^'  The  boy's  gone/'  he  said,  at  last. 
*'  You'd  be  all  alone  without  me.  He 
ain't  here.  But  he's  well  looked  after, 
Millie.  Don't  you  fret  about  him.  By 
this  time  he's  sound  asleep." 

She  slipped  from  his  embrace.  He 
made  no  effort  to  detain  her  :  conceiv- 
ing her  secure  in  his  possession.  A 
moment  she  stood  staring  at  the  floor, 
lost  to  her  surroundings  :  then  quickly 
turned  to  look  upon  him — her  face 
aglow  with  some  high  tenderness. 

''  Asleep?  "  she  asked,  her  voice  low, 
tremulous. 

*'  Sound  asleep." 

*'  How  do  you  know  that  he's 
asleep ?  "  she  pursued.  "  Asleep?  No  ; 
he  ain't  asleep."  She  paused — now 
woebegone.     ''  He's  wide  awake — wait- 


I20       THE        MOTHER 

ing/^  she  went  on.  "  He's  waiting 
— -just  like  he  used  to  do — for  me 
to  come  in.  .  .  .  He's  awake.  Oh, 
sore  little  heart !  He's  lying  alone  in 
the  dark — waiting.  And  his  mother 
will  not  come.  .  .  .  Last  night,  Jim, 
when  I  come  in,  he  was  there  in 
the  bed,  awake  and  waiting.  '  Oh, 
mother,'  says  he,  *  I'm  glad  you're 
come  at  last.  I  been  waiting  so  long. 
It's  lonesome  here  in  the  dark  without 
you.  And  to-morrow  I'll  wake,  and 
wait,  and  wait;  but  you  will  not 
come !  ^  He's  awake,  Jim.  Don't 
you  tell  me  no  different.  The  pillow's 
wet  with  his  tears.  .  o  .  Lonely  child 
— waiting  for  me !  Oh,  little  heart 
of  my  baby  !     Oh,  sore  little  heart  I  " 

'^  Millie  ! " 

"  It  ain^t  no  use  no  more,  Jim.  You 
better  go  home.     I'm  all  alone.     My 


IN      THE      CURRENT    121 

child's     not    here.      But — he's    some- 
where.    And  it's  him  I  love.'* 
The  man  sighed  and  went  away.  .  .  . 

Left  alone,  she  put  the  little  room 
in  order  and  made  the  bed,  blinded  by 
tears,  her  steps  uncertain :  muttering 
incoherently  of  her  child,  whimpering 
broken  snatches  of  lullaby  songs. 
When  there  was  no  more  work  left 
for  her  hands  to  do,  she  staggered  to 
the  bureau,  and  from  the  lower  drawer 
took  a  great,  flaunting  doll,  which  she 
had  there  kept,  poor  soul  I  against  the 
time  when  her  arms  would  be  empty, 
her  bosom  aching  for  a  familiar  weight 
upon  it.  And  for  a  time  she  sat  rock- 
ing the  cold  counterfeit,  crooning, 
faintly  singing,  caressing  it;  but  she 
had  known  the  warmth,  the  sweet 
restlessness,  the  soft,  yielding  form  of 


122       THE 


MOTHER 


the  living  child,  and  could  not  be 
content.  Presently,  in  a  surge  of  dis- 
gust, she  flung  the  substitute  violently 
from  her. 

"  It  ain't  no  baby,"  she  moaned, 
putting  her  hands  to  her  face.  ^'  It's 
only  a  doll !  " 

She  sank  limp  to  the  floor.  There 
she  lay  prone — the  moonlight  falling 
softly  upon  her,  but  healing  her  not  at 
all. 


THE  Rev.  John  Fithian  lived 
alone  with  a  man-se?vant  in  a 
wide-windowed,  sombre,  red 
old  house,  elbowed  by  tenements,  near 
the  Church  of  the  Lifted  Cross — 
once  a  fashionable  quarter  :  now  mean, 
dejected,  incongruously  thronged,  and 
fast  losing  the  last  appearances  ot 
respectability.  Sombre  without — half- 
lit,  silent,  vast  within :  the  whole 
intolerant  of  frivolity,  inharmony, 
123 


124       THE        MOTHER 

garishness,  ugliness,  but  yet  quite 
free  of  gloom  and  ghostly  sugges- 
tion. The  boy  tiptoed  over  the  thick 
carpets,  spoke  in  whispers,  eyed  the 
shadowy  corners — sensitive  to  impres- 
sions, forever  alert :  nevertheless  pos- 
sessing a  fine  feeling  of  security  and 
hopefulness ;  still  wistful,  often  weep- 
ing in  the  night,  but  not  melancholy. 
Responsive  to  environment,  by  nature 
harmonious  with  his  new  surround- 
ings, he  presently  moved  through  the 
lofty  old  rooms  with  a  manner  reflect- 
ing their  own — the  same  gravity,  se- 
renity, old-fashioned  grace :  expressing 
even  their  stateliness  in  a  quaint  and 
childish  way.  Thus  was  the  soil  of  his 
heart  prepared  for  the  seed  of  a  great 
change. 

By  and  by  the  curate  enlightened 


THE        CHORISTER    125 

the  child  concerning  sin  and  the  Vi- 
carious Sacrifice.  This  was  when  the 
leaves  were  falling  from  the  trees  in 
the  park — a  drear,  dark  night :  the 
wind  sweeping  the  streets  in  violent 
gusts,  the  rain  lashing  the  window- 
panes.  Night  had  come  unnoticed — 
swiftly,  intensely  :  in  the  curate's  study 
a  change  from  gray  twilight  to  firelit 
shadows.  The  boy  was  squatted  on 
the  hearth-rug,  disquieted  by  the  ma- 
licious beating  at  the  window,  glad  to 
be  in  the  glow  of  the  fire :  his  visions 
all  of  ragged  men  and  women  cower- 
ing from  the  weather. 

"  It  is  time,  now,"  the  curate  sighed, 
"that  I  told  you  the  story." 

"What  story?" 

"  The  story  of  the  Man  who  died  for 
us." 

The    boy    turned — in    wonderment. 


126       THE        MOTHER 

"  I  did  not  know,"  he  said,  quickly, 
"  that  a  man  had  died  for  us.     What 
was   his   name?     Why  did   he  do  it? 
My  mother  never  told  me  that  story." 
**  I  think  she  does  not  know  it." 
'*  Then  I'll  tell  her  when  I  learn." 
"  Perhaps,"   said    the    curate,  "  she 
will  like  to  hear  it — from  you." 

Very  gently,  then,  in  his  deep,  mellif- 
luous voice — while  the  rain  beat  upon 
the  windows,  crying  out  the  sorrows  of 
the  poor — the  curate  unfolded  the 
poignant  story  :  the  terms  simple,  the 
recital  clear,  vivid,  complete.  .  .  . 
And  to  the  heart  of  this  child  the  ap- 
peal was  immediate  and  irresistible. 

*'  And  they  who  sin,"  the  curate  con- 
cluded, **  crucify  Him  again." 

*^  I  love  that  Jesus  !  "  the  boy  sobbed. 
"I  love  Him — almost  as  much  as 
mother." 


THE        CHORISTER    127 

^'Almost?" 

The  boy  misunderstood.  He  felt 
reproved.  He  flushed — ashamed  that 
the  new  love  had  menaced  the  old. 
"  No,"  he  answered  ;  *'  but  I  love  Him 
very  much." 

*'  Not  as  much  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  could  not  I " 

The  boy  was  never  afterwards  the 
same.  All  that  was  inharmonious  in 
life — the  pain  and  poverty  and  unlove- 
liness — became  as  sin  :  a  continuous 
crucifixion,  hateful,  wringing  the 
heart.  .  .  . 

Late  in  the  night,  when  he  lay  sleep- 
less, sick  for  his  mother's  presence,  her 
voice,  her  kisses,  her  soothing  touch, 
the  boy  would  rise  to  sit  at  the  win- 
dow— there  to  watch  shadowy  figures 
flit  through  the  street-lamp's  circle  of 


1^8       THE        MOTHER 

light.  Once  he  fancied  that  his 
mother  came  thus  out  of  the  night,  that 
for  a  moment  she  paused  with  upturned 
glance,  then  disappeared  in  woe  and 
haste :  returning,  halted  again ;  but 
came  no  more.  .  .  . 

At  rare  intervals  the  boy's  mother 
came  to  the  curate's  door.  She  would 
not  enter :  but  timidly  waited  for  her 
son,  and  then  went  with  him  to  the 
park,  relieved  to  be  away  from  the 
wide,  still  house,  her  spirits  and  self- 
confidence  reviving  with  every  step. 
One  mellow  evening,  while  they  sat  to- 
gether in  the  dusk,  an  ill-clad  man, 
gray  and  unkempt,  shuffled  near. 

''  Mother,"  the  boy  whispered,  grip- 
ping her  hand,  ^'  he  is  looking  at  us." 

She  laughed.  "  Let  him  look  !  "  said 
she.     ''  It  don't  matter." 


THE        CHORISTER    129 

The  man  staggered  to  the  bench — 
heavily  sat  down  :  limp  and  shameless, 
his  head  hanging. 

"  Let  us  go  away  I  "  the  boy  pleaded. 

*'Why,  darling?^'  his  mother  asked, 
puzzled.  "What's  the  matter  with 
you,  anyhow  ? "  She  looked  at  him 
— realizing  some  subtle  change  in  him, 
bewildered  by  it :  searching  eagerly  for 
the  nature  and  cause.  "You  didn't 
used  to  be  like  that,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  like  him.  He's  wicked. 
He  frightens  me." 

The  man  slipped  suddenly  from  the 
bench — sprawling  upon  the  walk.  The 
woman  laughed. 

"  Don't  laugh  !  "  the  boy  exclaimed 
— a  cry  of  reproach,  not  free  of  indig- 
nation. "  Oh,  mother,"  he  complained, 
putting  her  hand  to  his  cheek,  "  how 
could  you !  " 


130       THE        MOTHER 

She  did  not  answer.  The  derelict 
picked  himself  up,  whining  in  a 
maudlin  way. 

"  How  could  you ! "  the  boy  re- 
peated. 

'^Oh/'  said  she,  lightly,  "he's  all 
right.     He  won't  hurt  us." 

"  He's  wicked  !  " 

"  He's  drunk.  It  don't  matter. 
What's  come  over  you,  dear?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  boy.  "  He's 
sinful." 

"  He's  only  drunk,  poor  man  !  " 

High  over  the  houses  beyond,  the 
steeple  of  the  Church  of  the  Lifted  Cross 
pierced  the  blue-black  sky.  It  was 
tipped  with  a  blazing  cross — a  great 
cross,  flaming  in  the  night :  a  symbol 
of  sacrifice,  a  hope,  a  protest,  raised 
above  the  feverish  world.  To  this  the 
boy  looked.      It  transported  him   far 


THE        CHORISTER    131 

from     the    woman     whose     hand    he 
clutched. 

"They  who  sin,"  he  muttered,  his 
eyes  still  turned  to  the  lifted  cross, 
"  crucify  the  dear  Lord  again  !  " 

His  mother  was  both  mystified  and 
appalled.  She  followed  his  glance — 
but  saw  only  the  familiar  landmark : 
an  illuminated  cross,  topping  a  steeple. 

*'  For  God's  sake,  Richard  !  "  she  de- 
manded, ''  what  you  talking  about?  " 

He  did  not  hear. 

*'  You  ain't  sick,  are  you  ?  "  she  con- 
tinued. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  she 
implored.     "  Oh,  tell  your  mother  !  " 

He  loosened  his  hand  from  her  clasp, 
withdrew  it :  but  instantly  caught  her 
hand  again,  and  kissed  it  passionately. 
So   much   concerned   was   she  for  his 


132       THE        MOTHER 

physical  health  that  the  momentary 
shrinking  escaped  her. 

"  You're  sick,"  she  said.  ''  I  know 
you  are.  You're  singing  too  much  in 
the  church." 

''  No." 

"Then  you're  eating  too  much 
lemon  pie,"  she  declared,  anxiously. 
"  You're  too  fond  of  that.  It  upsets 
your  stomach.  Oh,  Richard  !  Shame, 
dear  I     I  told  you  not  to." 

"  You  told  me  not  to  eat  mucJi,^'  he 
said.     "So   I   don't  eat  any — to  make 


sure." 


She  was  aware  of  the  significance  of 
this  sacrifice — and  kissed  him  quickly 
in  fond  approval.  Then  she  turned 
up  his  coat-sleeve.  "The  fool!"  she 
cried.  "  You  got  cold.  That's  what's 
the  matter  with  you.  Here  it  is  No- 
vember !     And  he  ain't  put  your  flan- 


THE        CHORISTER    133 

nels  on.  That  there  curate,"  she  con- 
cluded, in  disgust,  "  don't  know  noth- 
ing about  raising  a  boy." 

"  I'm  quite  well,  mother.'* 

'*  Then  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  sad  I  "  he  whispered. 

She  caught  him  to  her  breast — 
blindly  misconceiving  the  meaning  of 
this  :  in  her  ignorance  concluding  that 
he  longed  for  her,  and  was  sick  because 
of  that.  .  .  .  And  while  she  held  him 
close,  the  clock  of  the  Church  of  the 
Lifted  Cross  chimed  seven.  In  haste 
she  put  him  down,  kissed  him,  set  him 
on  his  homeward  way ;  and  she  watched 
him  until  he  was  lost  in  the  dusk  and 
distance  of  the  park.  Then,  concerned, 
bewildered,  she  made  haste  to  that 
quarter  of  the  city — that  swarming, 
flaring,  blatant  place — where  lay  her 
occupation  for  the  night. 


134       THE        MOTHER 

Near  Christmas,  in  a  burst  of  snowy 
weather,  the  boy  sang  his  first  solo  at 
the  Church  of  the  Lifted  Cross  :  this  at 
evening.  His  mother,  conspicuously 
gowned,  somewhat  overcome  by  the 
fashion  of  the  place,  which  she  had 
striven  to  imitate — momentarily  cha- 
grined by  her  inexplicable  failure  to 
be  in  harmony — seated  herself  ob- 
scurely, where  she  had  but  an  infre- 
quent glimpse  of  his  white  robe,  wist- 
ful face,  dark,  curling  hair.  She  had 
never  loved  him  more  proudly — never 
before  realized  that  his  value  extended 
beyond  the  region  of  her  arms  :  never 
before  known  that  the  babe,  the  child, 
the  growing  boy,  mothered  by  her, 
nursed  at  her  breast,  her  possession, 
was  a  gift  to  the  world,  sweet  and  in- 
spiring. ^^  Angels,  ever  bright  and 
fair  !  "     She  felt  the  thrill  of  his  tender 


THE        CHORISTER    135 

voice ;  perceived  the  impression :  the 
buzz,  the  subsiding  confusion,  the  spell- 
bound stillness.  ^'  Take,  oh,  take  me 
to  your  care  !  "  It  was  in  her  heart  to 
strike  her  breasts — to  cry  out  that  this 
was  her  son,  born  of  her;  her  bosom 
his  place.  .  .  . 

When  the  departing  throng  had 
thinned  in  the  aisle,  she  stepped  from 
the  pew,  and  stood  waiting.  There 
passed,  then,  a  lady  in  rich  attire — 
sweet-faced,  of  exquisite  manner.  A 
bluff,  ruddy  young  man  attended  her. 

"  Did  you  like  the  music?  '^  he  asked 
— a  conventional  question :  everywhere 
repeated. 

"  Perfectly  lovely  !  "  she  replied. 
"  A  wonderful  voice  I  And  such  a 
pretty  child ! " 

''  I  wonder,"  said  he,  ^^  who  the  boy 
can  be?'' 


136       THE        MOTHER 

Acting  upon  ingenuous  impulse,  the 
boy's  mother  overtook  the  man,  timidly 
touched  his  elbow,  looked  into  his  eyes, 
her  own  bright  with  proud  love. 

''  He  is  my  son,''  she  said. 

The  lady  turned  in  amazement.  In 
a  brief,  appraising  glance,  she  compre- 
hended the  whole  woman  ;  the  outr6 
gown,  the  pencilled  eyebrows,  the 
rouged  cheeks,  the  bleached  hair. 
She  took  the  man's  arm. 

"  Come  !  "  she  said. 

The  man  yielded.  He  bowed — 
smiled  in  an  embarrassed  way,  flush- 
ing to  his  sandy  hair  :  turned  his  back. 

"  How  strange  I  "  the  lady  whispered. 

The  woman  was  left  alone  in  the 
aisle — not  chagrined  by  the  rebuff,  be- 
ing used  to  this  attitude,  sensitive  no 
longer  :  but  now  knowing,  for  the  first 
time,  that  the  world  into  which  her 


THE        CHORISTER    137 

child  had  gone  would  not  accept  her. 
.  .  .  The  church  was  empty.  The 
organ  had  ceased.  One  by  one  the 
twinkling  lights  were  going  out.  The 
boy  came  bounding  down  the  aisle. 
With  a  glad  little  cry  he  leaped  into 
her  waiting  arms.  .  .  . 


THIS  night,  after  a  week  of  impa- 
tient expectation,  they  were  by 
the  curate's  permission  to  spend 
together  in  the  Box  Street  tenement.  It 
was  the  boy's  first  return  to  the  little 
room  overlooking  the  river.  Thither 
they  hurried  through  the  driving  snow, 
leaning  to  the  blasts,  unconscious  of  the 
bitterness  of  the  night :  the  twain  in  high 
spirits — the  boy  chattering,  merrily, 
incoherently,  as  he  trotted  at  his  silent 
138 


ALIENATION         139 

mother's  side.  Very  happy,  now,  in- 
deed, they  raced  up  the  stair,  rioting 
up  flight  after  flight,  to  top  floor  rear, 
where  there  was  a  cheery  fire,  a  kettle 
bubbling  on  the  stove,  a  lamp  turned 
low — a  feeling  of  warmth  and  repose 
and  welcome,  which  the  broad  window, 
noisily  shaken  by  a  hearty  winter  wind 
from  the  sea,  pleasantly  accentuated. 

The  gladness  of  this  return,  the  sud- 
den, overwhelming  realization  of  a 
longing  that  had  been  agonizing  in 
its  intensity,  excited  the  boy  beyond 
bounds.  He  gave  an  indubitable 
whoop  of  joy,  which  so  startled  and 
amazed  the  woman  that  she  stared 
open-mouthed ;  tossed  his  cap  in  the 
air,  flung  his  overcoat  and  gloves  on 
the  floor,  peeped  through  the  black 
window-panes,  pried  into  the  cupboard, 
hugged  his  mother  so  rapturously,  so 


140       THE        MOTHER 

embarrassingly,  that  he  tumbled  her 
over  and  was  himself  involved  in  the 
hilarious  collapse :  whereupon,  as  a 
measure  of  protection  while  she  laid 
the  table,  she  despatched  him  across 
the  hall  to  greet  Mr.  Poddle,  who  was 
ill  abed,  anxiously  awaiting  him. 

The  Dog-faced  Man  was  all  prinked 
for  the  occasion — his  hirsute  adorn- 
ment neatly  brushed  and  braided, 
smoothly  parted  from  crown  over  brow 
and  nose  to  chin :  so  that,  though,  to 
be  sure,  his  appearance  instantly  sug- 
gested a  porcupine,  his  sensitive  lips 
and  mild  gray  eyes  were  for  once 
allowed  to  impress  the  beholder.  The 
air  of  Hockley's  Musee  had  at  last  laid 
him  by  the  heels.  No  longer,  by  any 
license  of  metaphor,  could  his  lungs  be 
said  to  be  merely  restless.  He  was  flat 
on   his    back — white,    wan,    gasping : 


ALIENATION         141 

sweat  dampening  the  hair  on  his  brow. 
But  he  bravely  chirked  up  when  the 
child  entered,  subdued  and  pitiful ; 
and  though,  in  response  to  a  glance  of 
pain  and  concern,  his  eyes  overran 
with  the  weak  tears  of  the  sick,  he 
smiled  like  a  man  to  whom  Nature  had 
not  been  cruel,  while  he  pressed  the 
small  hand  so  swiftly  extended. 

"  I^m  sick,  Richard,"  he  whispered. 
"  *  Death  No  Respecter  of  Persons.^  Git 
me  ?  '  High  and  Low  Took  By  the 
Grim  Reaper.'     I'm  awful  sick." 

The  boy,  now  seated  on  the  bed,  still 
holding  the  ghastly  hand,  hoped  that 
Mr.  Poddle  would  soon  be  well. 

"  No,"  said  the  Dog-faced  Man.  "  I 
won't.  '  Climax  of  a  Notable  Career.' 
Git  me  ?     It  wouldn't — be  proper." 

Not  proper  ? 

*'  No,   Richard.     It   really  wouldn't 


142       THE        MOTHER 

be  proper.  '  Dignified  in  Death/  Un- 
derstand? Distinguished  men  has 
their  limits.  '  Outlived  His  Fame.'  I 
really  couldn't  stand  it.     Git  me  ?  " 

"  Not— quite." 

"  Guess  I'll  have  to  tell  you.  Look  I '' 
The  Dog-faced  Man  held  up  his  hand 
— but  swiftly  replaced  it  between  the 
child's  warm,  sympathetic  palms. 
*'  No  rings.  Understand  ?  '  Pawned 
the  Family  Jewells.'  Git  me?  *  Re- 
duced to  Poverty.'  Where's  my  frock 
coat?  Where's  my  silk  hat?  '  Ward- 
robe of  a  Celebrity  Sold  For  A  Song.' 
Where's  them  two  pair  of  trousers? 
*  A  Tragic  Disappearance.'  All  up  the 
spout.  Everything  gone.  *  Not  a 
Stitch  to  His  Name.'  Really,  Richard, 
it  wouldn't  be  proper  to  get  well.  A 
natural  phenomenon  of  my  standing 
couldn't — simply    couldn't,    Richard — 


ALIENATION  143 

go  back  to  the  profession  with  a  ward- 
robe consistin*  of  two  pink  night-shirts, 
both  the  worse  for  wear.  It  wouldn't 
do!  *0n  the  Stage  In  Scant  Attire/ 
I  couldn't  stand  it.  '  Fell  From  His 
High  Estate/  It  would  break  my 
heart." 

No  word  of  comfort  occurred  to  the 
boy. 

''  So,"  sighed  the  Dog-faced  Man,  "  I 
guess  I  better  die.  And  the  quicker 
the  better." 

To  change  the  distressful  drift  of  the 
conversation,  the  boy  inquired  concern- 
ing the  Mexican  Sword  Swallower. 

''  Hush  !  "  implored  Mr.  Poddle,  in  a 
way  so  poignant  that  the  boy  wished 
he  had  been  more  discreet.  ''  Them 
massive  proportions  I  Them  socks  I 
'  Her  Fate  a  Tattooed  Man,' "  he  pur- 
sued, in  gentle  melancholy.     ''  Don't 


144       THE        MOTHER 

ask  me  I  ^  Nearing  the  Fateful  Hour.' 
Poor  child  !  '  Wedded  To  A  Artificial 
Freak/  " 

"  Is  she  married  ?  " 

"No— not  yet/'  Mr.  Poddle  ex- 
plained. "  But  when  the  dragon's  tail 
is  finished,  accordin'  to  undenigeable 
report,  the  deed  will  be  did.  '  Shack- 
led For  Life.'  Oh,  my  God!  He's 
borrowed  the  money  to  pay  the  last  in- 
stallment ;  and  I'm  informed  that  only 
the  scales  has  to  be  picked  out  with 
red.  But  why  should  I  mourn  ?  "  he 
asked.  ''  ^  Adored  From  Afar.'  Un- 
derstand? That's  what  I  got  to  do. 
'  His  Love  a  Tragedy.'  Oh,  Richard," 
Mr.  Poddle  concluded,  in  genuine  dis- 
tress, "  that's  me !  It  couldn't  be 
nothing  else.  Natural  phenomens  is 
natural  phenomens.  '  Paid  the  Penalty 
of  Genius.'     That's  me  !  " 


ALIENATION         145 

The  boy^s  mother  called  to  him. 

''Richard/^  said  Mr.  Poddle,  ab- 
ruptly, ''I'm  awful  sick.  I  can't  last 
much  longer.  Git  me?  I'm  dyin\ 
And  I'm  poor.  I  ain't  got  a  cent. 
I'm  forgot  by  the  public.  I'm  all 
alone  in  the  world.  Nobody  owes  me 
no  kindness."  He  clutched  the  boy's 
hand.  "Know  who  pays  my  rent? 
Know  who  feeds  me?  Know  who 
brings  the  doctor  when  I  vomit  blood  ? 
Know  who  sits  with  me  in  the  night — 
when  I  can't  sleep?  Know  who 
watches  over  me  ?  Who  comforts  me  ? 
Who  holds  my  hand  when  I  git  afraid 
to  die?  Know  who  that  is,  Rich- 
ard ?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  boy  whispered. 

"Who  is  it?" 

*'  My  mother  !  "    • 

"  Yes — your  mother,"  said  the  Dog- 


146       THE        MOTHER 

faced  Man.  He  lifted  himself  on  the 
pillow.  "Richard,"  he  continued, 
"  listen  to  me  !  I'll  be  dead,  soon,  and 
then  I  can't  talk  to  you  no  more.  I 
can't  say  no  word  to  you  from  the 
grave — when  the  time  she  dreads  has 
come.  Listen  to  me ! "  His  voice 
rose.  He  was  breathing  in  gasps. 
There  was  a  light  in  his  eyes.  '^  It  is 
your  mother.  There  ain't  a  better 
woman  in  all  the  world.  Listen  to 
me  I  Don't  you  forget  her.  She  loves 
you.  You're  all  she's  got.  Her  poor 
heart  is  hungry  for  you.  Don't  you 
forget  her.  There  ain't  a  better  woman 
nowhere.  There  ain't  a  woman  more 
fit  for  heaven.  Don't  you  go  back  on 
her  1  Don't  you  let  no  black-and- 
white  curick  teach  you  no  differ- 
ent ! " 

"  I'll  not  forget !  "  said  the  boy. 


ALIENATION         147 

Mr.  Poddle  laid  a  hand  on  his  head. 
"  God  bless  you,  Richard  I  "  said  he. 

The  boy  kissed  him,  unafraid  of  his 
monstrous  countenance — and  then  fled 
to  his  mother.  .  .  . 
f 

For  a  long  time  the  Dog-faced  Man 
lay  alone,  listening  to  the  voices  across 
the  hall :  himself  smiling  to  know  that 
the  woman  had  her  son  again  ;  not  sel- 
fishly reluctant  to  be  thus  abandoned. 
The  door  was  ajar.  Joyous  sounds 
drifted  in — chatter,  soft  laughter,  the 
rattle  of  dishes.  .  .  .  Presently,  si- 
lence :  broken  by  the  creaking  of  the 
rocking-chair,  and  by  low  singing.  .  .  . 
By  and  by,  voices,  speaking  gravely — 
in  intimate  converse :  this  for  a  long, 
long  time,  while  the  muttering  of  the 
tenement  ceased,  and  quiet  fell.  .  .  . 
A  plea  and  an  imploring  protest.     She 


148       THE        MOTHER 

was  wanting  him  to  go  to  bed.  There 
followed  the  familiar  indications  that 
the  child  was  being  disrobed :  shoes 
striking  the  floor,  yawns,  sleepy  talk, 
crooning  encouragement.  .  .  .  Then 
a  strange  silence — puzzling  to  the 
listener :  not  accountable  by  his  recol- 
lection of  similar  occasions. 

There  was  a  quick  step  in  the  hall. 

"  Poddle  I '' 

The  Dog-faced  Man  started.  There 
was  alarm  in  the  voice — despair,  re- 
sentment. On  the  threshold  stood  the 
woman — distraught :  one  hand  against 
the  door-post,  the  other  on  her  heart. 

^^  Poddle,  he's '^ 

Mr.  Poddle,  thrown  into  a  paroxysm 
of  fright  by  the  pause,  struggled  to  his 
elbow,  but  fell  back,  gasping. 

"What's  he  doin'?"  he  managed  to 
whisper. 


ALIENATION         149 

"  Pray  in'  I  "  she  answered,  hoarsely. 

Mr.  Poddle  was  utterly  nonplussed. 
The  situation  was  unprecedented :  not 
to  be  dealt  with  on  the  basis  of  past 
experience. 

"  *  Religion  In  Haste/  "  he  sighed, 
sadly  confounded.  "  *  Repent  At 
Leisure.' " 

"  Prayin'  I "  she  repeated,  entering  on 
tiptoe.  *'  He's  down  on  his  knees — 
prayin^  I "  She  began  to  pace  the  floor 
— wringing  her  hands  :  a  tragic  figure. 
"  It's  come,  Poddle  !  "  she  whimpered, 
beginning  now  to  bite  at  her  finger- 
nails. "  He's  changed.  He  never  seen 
me  pray.  I  never  told  him  how.  Oh, 
he's — dififerent.  And  he'll  change 
more.  I  got  to  face  it.  He'll  soon  be 
like  the  people  that — that — don't  un- 
derstand us.  I  couldn't  stand  it  to  see 
that  stare  in  his  eyes.     It'll  kill  me, 


I50       THE        MOTHER 

Poddle  !  I  knew  it  would  come,"  she 
continued,  uninterrupted,  Mr.  Poddle 
being  unable  to  come  to  her  assistance 
for  lack  of  breath.  "  But  I  didn't 
think  it  would  be  so — awful  soon. 
And  I  didn't  know  how  much  it 
would  hurt.  I  didn't  think  about  it. 
I  didn't  dare.  Oh,  my  baby ! "  she 
sobbed.  ''  You'll  not  love  your  mother 
any  more — when  you  find  her  out. 
You'll  be  just  like — all  them  people !  " 
She  came  to  a  full  stop.  ''  Poddle," 
she  declared,  trembling,  her  voice  ris- 
ing harshly,  "  I  got  to  do  something. 
I  got  to  do  it — quick !  What  shall  I 
do?     Oh,  what  shall  I  do?" 

Mr.  Poddle  drew  a  long  breath. 
*'  Likewise  !  "  he  gasped. 

She  did  not  understand. 

"  Likewise  !  "  Mr.  Poddle  repeated. 
*^' Fought     the     Devil     With     Fire.* 


ALIENATION         151 

Quick  !  "  He  weakly  beckoned  her 
to  be  off.  "  Don't — let  him  ^know — 
you're  different.  Go  and — pray  your- 
self. Don't — let  on  you — never  done 
it — before." 

She  gave  him  a  glad  glance  of  com- 
prehension— and  disappeared.  .  .  . 

The  boy  had  risen. 

"  Oh  I "  she  exclaimed,  brightly. 
"  You  got  through,  didn't  you,  dear  ?  " 

He  was  now  sitting  on  the-  edge  of 
the  bed,  his  legs  dangling — still  re- 
luctant to  crawl  within.  And  he  was 
very  gravely  regarding  her,  a  cloud  of 
anxious  wonder  in  his  eyes. 

"  Who  taught  you  to,"  she  hesitated, 
"  do  it — that  way  ?  "  she  pursued,  mak- 
ing believe  to  be  but  lightly  interested. 
"The  curate?  Oh,  my!"  she  ex- 
claimed,   immediately    changing     the 


152       THE        MOTHER 

thought.  **  Your  mother's  awful 
sleepy.'*  She  counterfeited  a  yawn. 
*'  I  never  kneel  to — do  it,"  she  con- 
tinued. In  a  sharp  glance  she  saw 
the  wonder  clearing  from  his  eyes,  the 
beginnings  of  a  smile  appear  about  his 
lips ;  and  she  was  emboldened  to  pro- 
ceed. *'  Some  kneels,"  she  said,  *'  and 
some  doesn't.  The  curate,  I  suppose, 
kneels.  That's  his  way.  Now,  I  don't. 
I  was  brought  up — the  other  way.  I 
wait  till  I  get  in  bed  to — say  mine. 
When  you  was  a  baby,"  she  rattled, 
"  I  used  to — keep  it  up — for  hours  at  a 
time.  I  just  love  to — do  it.  In  bed, 
you  know.  I  guess  you  never  seen  me 
kneel,  did  you  ?  But  I  think  I  will, 
after  this,  because  you — do  it — that 
way." 

His     serenity    was    quite    restored. 
Glad  to  learn  that  his  mother  knew 


ALIENATION         153 

the  solace  of  prayer,  he  rolled  back  on 
the  pillows.     She  tucked  him  in. 

"  Now,  watch  me,"  she  said. 

"  And  I,"  said  he,  "  will  pray  all 
over  again.  In  bed,"  he  added  ;  "  be- 
cause that's  the  way  you  do  it." 

She  knelt.  ''  In  God's  name !  "  she 
thought,  as  she  inclined  her  head, 
''what  can  I  do?  I've  lost  him.  Oh, 
I've  lost  him.  .  .  .  What'll  I  do 
when  he  finds  out?  He'll  not  love 
me  then.  Love  me ! "  she  thought, 
bitterly.  ^'  He'll  look  at  me  like  them 
people  in  the  church.  I  can't  stand  it  I 
I  got  to  do  something.  ...  It  won't 
be  long.  They'll  tell  him — some  one. 
And  I  can't  do  nothing  to  help  it  I 
But  I  got  to  do  something.  .  .  .  My 
God  I  I  got  to  do  something.  I'll 
dress  better  than  this.  This  foulard's 
a  botch."     New  fashions  in  dress,  in 


154       THE        MOTHER 

coiffures,  multiplied  in  her  mind.  She 
was  groping,  according  to  her  poor  en- 
lightenment. ''  The  pompadour  !  "  she 
mused,  inspired,  according  to  the  in- 
spiration of  her  kind.  ^'  It  might  suit 
my  style.  I'll  try  it.  .  .  ..  But,  oh, 
it  won't  do  no  good,"  she  thought, 
despairing.  ^^  It  won't  do  no  good. 
.  .  .  I've  lost  him  I  Good  God  I  I've 
lost  my  own  child.  .  .  ." 

She  rose. 

"  It  took  you  an  awful  long  time," 
said  the  boy. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  absently. 
"I'm  the  real  thing.  When  I  pray, 
I  pray  good  and  hard." 


THE  boy's  room  was  furnished  in 
the  manner  of  the.  curate's 
chamber — which,  indeed,  was 
severe  and  chaste  enough :  for  the  curate 
practiced  certain  monkish  austerities  not 
common  to  the  clergy  of  this  day.  It  was 
a  white,  bare  little  room,  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  overlooking  the  street :  a  still 
place,  into  which,  at  bedtime,  no  distrac- 
tion entered  to  break  the  nervous  intro- 
spection, the  high,  wistful  dreaming, 
155 


156       THE        MOTHER 

sadly  habitual  to  the  child  when  left 
alone  in  the  dark.  But  always,  of  fine 
mornings,  the  sun  came  joyously  to 
waken  him;  and  often,  in  the  night,  when 
he  lay  wakeful,  the  moon  peeped  in  upon 
the  exquisite  simplicity,  and,  discover- 
ing a  lonely  child,  companionably  lin- 
gered to  hearten  him.  The  beam  fell 
over  the  window-sill,  crawled  across  the 
floor,  climbed  the  bare  wall. 

There  was  a  great  white  crucifix  on 
the  wall,  hanging  in  the  broad  path  of 
the  moonlight.  It  stared  at  the  boy^s 
pillow,  tenderly  appealing :  the  head 
thorn-crowned,  the  body  drawn  tense, 
the  face  uplifted  in  patient  agony. 
Sometimes  it  made  the  boy  cry. 

"  They  who  sin,'^  he  would  repeat, 
^'  crucify  the  dear  Lord  again  !  '^ 

It  would  be  very  hard,  then,  to  fall 
asleep.  .  .  . 


A      CHILD'S      PRAYER    157 

So  did  the  crucifix  on  the  wall  work 
within  the  child's  heart — so  did  the 
shadows  of  the  wide,  still  house  impress 
him,  so  did  the  curate's  voice  and  gen- 
tle teaching,  so  did  the  gloom,  the 
stained  windows,  the  lofty  arches,  the 
lights  and  low,  sweet  music  of  the 
Church  of  the  Lifted  Cross  favour  the 
subtle  change — that  he  was  now  moved 
to  pain  and  sickening  disgust  by  rags 
and  pinched  faces  and  discord  and  dirt 
and  feverish  haste  and  all  manner  of 
harshness  and  unloveliness,  conceiving 
them  poignant  as  sin.   .   .   . 

Mother  and  son  were  in  the  park.  It 
was  evening — dusk  :  a  grateful  balm 
abroad  in  the  air.  Men  and  women, 
returning  from  church,  idled  through 
the  spring  night. 

"  But,  dear,"  said  his  mother,  while 


158       THE        MOTHER 

she  patted  his  hand,  ''  you  mustn't  hate 
the  wicked ! " 

He  looked  up  in  wonder. 

"  Oh,  my !  no,"  she  pursued.  "  Poor 
things !  They're  not  so  bad — when 
you  know  them.     Some  is  real  kind." 

"  I  could  not  love  them  I  " 

** Why  not?" 

"  I  could  not ! " 

So  positive,  this — the  suggestion  so 
scouted — that  she  took  thought  for  her 
own  fate. 

"  Would  you  love  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  mother  !  "  he  laughed. 

"  What  would  you  do,"  she  gravely 
continued,  "if  I  was — a  wicked 
woman  ?  " 

He  laughed  again. 

"  What  would  you  do,"  she  insisted, 
"  if  somebody  told  you  I  was  bad  ?  " 

"  Mother,"  he  answered,  not  yet  af- 


A      CHILD'S       PRAYER    159 

fected  by  her  earnestness,  "  you  could 
not  be  I " 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 
"What  would  you  do?'^  she  re- 
peated. 

"  Don't !  "  he  pleaded,  disquieted. 

Again  the  question — low,  intense, 
demanding  answer.  He  trembled.  She 
was  not  in  play.  A  sinful  woman? 
For  a  moment  he  conceived  the  possi- 
bility— vaguely :  in  a  mere  flash  of 
feeling. 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"  I  don't  know  I  " 

She  sighed. 

"  I  think,''  he  whispered,  "  that  I'd 
—die ! " 

That  night,  when  the  moonlight  had 
climbed  to  the  crucifix  on  the  wall,  the 
boy  got  out  of  bed.     For  a  long  time 


i6o       THE        MOTHER 

he  stood  in  the  beam  of  soft  light — 
staring  at  the  tortured  Figure. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  do  it ! "  he  de- 
termined. 

He  knelt — lifted  his  clasped  hands — 
began  his  childish  appeal. 

"  Dear  Jesus,"  he  prayed,  "  my 
mother  says  that  I  must  not  hate  the 
wicked.  You  heard  her,  didn't  you, 
dear  Jesus?  It  was  in  the  park,  to- 
night, after  church — at  the  bench  near 
the  lilac  bush.  You  must  have  heard 
her.  .  .  .  Mother  says  the  wicked 
are  kind,  and  not  so  bad.  I  would  like 
very  much  to  love  them.  She  says 
they're  nice — when  you  know  them. 
I  know  she's  right,  of  course.  But  it 
seems  queer.  And  she  says  I  ought  to 
love  them.  So  I  want  to  do  it,  if  you 
don't  mind.  .  .  .  Maybe,  if  you 
would  let  me  be  a  little  wicked  for  a 


A      CHILD'S      PRAYER    i6i 

little  while,  I  could  do  it.  Don't  you 
think,  Jesus,  dear,  that  it  is  a  good 
idea?  A  little  wicked — for  just  a  little 
while.  I  wouldn't  care  very  much,  if 
you  didn't  mind.  But  if  it  hurts  you 
very  much,  I  don't  want  to,  if  you 
please.  .  .  .  But  I  would  like  to  be 
a  little  wicked.  If  I  do,  please  don't 
forget  me.  I  would  not  like  to  be 
wicked  long.  Just  a  little  while.  Then 
I  would  be  good  again — and  love  the 
wicked,  as  my  mother  wants  me  to  do. 
Good-bye.     I  mean — Amen  I " 

The  child  knew  nothing  about  sin. 


OF  a  yellow,  balmy  morning, 
with  a  languid  breeze  stirring 
the  curtains  in  the  open  win- 
dows of  the  street,  a  hansom  cab,  drawn 
by  a  lean  gray  beast,  appeared  near  the 
curate's  door.  What  with  his  wild 
career,  the  nature  of  his  errand,  the  ex- 
traordinary character  of  his  fare,  the 
driver  was  all  elbows  and  eyes — a  per- 
spiring, gesticulating  figure,  swaying 
widely  on  the  high  perch. 
162 


MR.      POODLE'S      FINALE    163 

Within  was  a  lady  so  monstrously 
stout  that  she  completely  filled  the 
vehicle.  Rolls  of  fat  were  tucked  into 
every  nook,  jammed  into  every  corner, 
calked  into  every  crevice ;  and,  at  last, 
demanding  place,  they  scandalously 
overflowed  the  apron.  So  tight  was 
the  fit — so  crushed  and  confined  the 
lady's  immensity — that,  being  quite  un- 
able to  articulate  or  stir,  but  desiring 
most  heartily  to  do  both,  she  could  do 
little  but  wheeze,  and  faintly'  wave  a 
gigantic  hand. 

Proceeding  thus — while  the  passen- 
ger gasped,  and  the  driver  gesticulated, 
and  the  hansom  creaked  and  tottered, 
and  the  outraged  horse  bent  to  the  fear- 
ful labour — the  equipage  presently  ar- 
rived at  the  curate's  door,  and  was  there 
drawn  up  with  a  jerk. 

The  Fat  Lady  was  released,  assisted 


i64       THE        MOTHER 

to  alight,  helped  across  the  pavement ; 
and  having  waddled  up  three  steps  of 
the  flight,  and  being  unable  without  a 
respite  to  lift  her  massive  foot  for  the 
fourth  time,  she  loudly  demanded  of 
the  impassive  door  the  instant  appear- 
ance of  Dickie  Slade  :  whereupon,  the 
door  flew  open,  and  the  boy  bounded 
out. 

"  Madame  Lacara !  "  he  cried. 

^' Quick,  child!"  the  Fat  Lady 
wheezed.  ^^  Git  your  hat.  Your  mother 
can't  stay  no  longer — and  I  can't  get 
up  the  stairs — and  Poddle's  dyin' — and 
git  your  hat ! " 

In  a  moment  the  boy  returned.  The 
Fat  Lady  was  standing  beside  the  cab — 
the  exhausted  horse  contemplating  her 
with  no  friendly  eye. 

'*  Git  in  !  "  said  she. 

"  Don't  you  do  it,"  the  driver  warned. 


MR.      PODDLE'S     FINALE    165 

''  Git  in  !  "  the  Fat  Lady  repeated. 

"  Not  if  he  knows  what's  good  for 
him,"  said  the  driver.     ''  Not  first." 

The  boy  hesitated. 

''  Git  in,  child ! "  screamed  the  Fat 
Lady. 

"  Don't  you  do  it,"  said  the  driver. 

"  Child,"  the  Fat  Lady  gasped,  exas- 
perated, ''  git  in  ! " 

"  Not  first,"  the  driver  repeated. 
"  There  ain't  room  for  both  ;  and  once 
she  lets  her  weight  down ". 

''  Maybe,"  the  Fat  Lady  admitted, 
after  giving  the  matter  most  careful 
consideration,  '^  it  would  be  better  for 
you  to  set  on  me." 

*'  Maybe,"  the  boy  agreed,  much  re- 
lieved, "  it  would." 

So  Madame  Lacara  entered,  and  took 
the  boy  in  her  arms ;  and  off,  at  last, 
they  went  towards  the  Box  Street  tene- 


i66       THE         MOTHER 

ment,  swaying,  creaking,  wheezing, 
with  a  troop  of  joyous  urchins  in  the 
wake.  .  .  . 

It  was  early  afternoon — with  the 
sunlight  lying  thick  and  warm  on  the 
window-ledge  of  Mr.  Poddle's  room, 
about  to  enter,  to  distribute  cheer,  to 
speak  its  unfailing  promises.  The  sash 
was  lifted  high ;  a  gentle  wind,  clean 
and  blue,  blowing  from  the  sea,  over 
the  roofs  and  the  river,  came  sportively 
in,  with  a  joyous  little  rush  and  swirl 
— but  of  a  sudden  failed :  hushed,  as 
though  by  unexpected  encounter  with 
the  solemnity  within. 

The  boy's  mother  was  gone.  It  was 
of  a  Saturday ;  she  had  not  dared  to 
linger.  When  the  boy  entered,  Mr. 
Poddle  lay  alone,  lifted  on  the  pillows, 
staring  deep  into  the  wide,  shining 
sky :    composed    and    dreamful.     The 


MR.      PODDLE^S      FINALE    167 

distress  of  his  deformity,  as  the  pains 
of  dissolution,  had  been  mitigated  by 
the  woman's  kind  and  knowing  hand  : 
the  tawny  hair,  by  nature  rank  and 
shaggy,  by  habit  unkempt,  now  damp 
with  sweat,  was  everywhere  laid  smooth 
upon  his  face — brushed  away  from  the 
eyes :  no  longer  permitted  to  obscure 
the  fast  failing  sight. 

Beside  him,  close — drawing  closer — 
the  boy  seated  himself.  Very  low  and 
broken — husky,  halting — was  -the  Dog- 
faced  Man's  voice.  The  boy  must  often 
bend  his  ear  to  understand. 

"The  hirsute,"  Mr.  Poddle  whis- 
pered, "  adornment.  All  ready  for  the 
last  appearance.  *  Natural  Phenom- 
onen  Meets  the  Common  Fate.'  Celeb- 
rities," he  added,  with  a  little  smile 
"  is  just  clay." 

The  boy  took  his  hand. 


i68       THE         MOTHER 

"  She  done  it,"  Mr.  Poddle  explained, 
faintly  indicating  the  unusual  condi- 
tion of  his  deforming  hair,  ^*  with  a 
little  brush." 

^'  She  ?  "  the  boy  asked,  with  signifi- 
cant emphasis. 

''  No,"  Mr.  Poddle  sighed.  ''  Hush  I 
Not  She— just  her." 

By  this  the  boy  knew  that  the  Mexi- 
can Sword  Swallower  had  not  relented 
— but  that  his  mother  had  been 
kind. 

"  She  left  that  there  little  brush 
somewheres,"  Mr.  Poddle  continued, 
with  an  effort  to  lift  his  head,  but 
failing  to  do  more  than  roll  his  glazed 
eyes.  "There  was  a  little  handker- 
chief with  it.  Can't  you  find  'em, 
Richard?  I  wish  you  could.  They 
make  me — more  comfortable.  Oh,  I'm 
glad  you  got  'em  !     I  feel  easier — this 


MR.      PODDLE'S      FINALE    169 

way.  She  said  you'd  stay  with  me — 
to  the  last.  She  said,  Richard,  that 
maybe  you'd  keep  the  hair  away  from 
my  eyes,  and  the  sweat  from  rollin'  in. 
For  I'm  easier  that  way ;  and  I 
want  to  see,"  he  moaned,  "  to  the 
last ! " 

The  boy  pressed  his  hand. 

''  I'm  tired  of  the  hair,"  Mr.  Poddle 
sighed.  "  I  used  to  be  proud  of  it ; 
but  I'm  tired  of  it — now.  It's  been 
admired,  Richard  ;  it's  been  applauded. 
Locks  of  it  has  been  requested  by  the 
Fair ;  and  the  Strong  has  wished  they 
was  me.  But,  Richard,  celebrities  sits 
on  a  lonely  eminence.  And  I  been 
lonely,  God  knows  !  though  I  kept  a 
smilin'  face.  .  .  .  I'm  tired  of  the 
hair — tired  of  fame.  It  all  looks  dif- 
ferent— when  you  git  sight  of  the 
Common     Leveller.      'Tired     of    His 


lyo      THE        MOTHER 

Talent.'  Since  I  been  lyin'  here, 
Richard,  sick  and  alone,  I  been 
thinkin'  that  talent  wasn't  nothin' 
much  after  all.  I  been  wishin',  Richard 
■ — wishin' !  " 

The  Dog-faced  Man  paused  for 
breath. 

^^  I  been  wishinV'  he  gasped,  ^'  that 
I  wasn't  a  phenomonen — but  only  a 
man ! " 

The  sunlight  began  to  creep  towards 
Mr.  Poddle's  bed — a  broad,  yellow 
beam,  stretching  into  the  blue  spaces 
without :  lying  like  a  golden  pathway 
before  him. 

^'Richard,"  said  Mr.  Poddle,  *' I'm 
goin'  to  die." 

The  boy  began  to  cry. 

"  Don't  cry  !  "  Mr.  Poddle  pleaded. 


MR.      POODLE'S      FINALE    171 

"I  ain't  afraid.  Hear  me,  Richard? 
I  ain't  afraid." 

"  No,  no  I  " 

"  I'm  glad  to  die.  *  Death  the  Dog- 
faced  Man's  Best  Friend.'  I'm  glad! 
Lyin'  here,  I  seen  the  truth.  It's  only 
when  a  man  looks  back  that  he  finds  out 
what  he's  missed — only  when  he  looks 
back,  from  the  end  of  the  path,  that  he 
sees  the  flowers  he  might  have  plucked 
by  the  way.  .  .  .  Lyin'  here,  I  been 
lookin'  back — far  back.  And  my  eyes 
is  opened.  Now  I  see — now  I  know  I 
I  have  been  travellin'  a  road  where  the 
flowers  grows  thick.  But  God  made 
me  so  I  couldn't  pick  'em.  It's  love, 
Richard,  that  men  wants.  Just  love  ! 
It's  love  their  hearts  is  thirsty 
for.  .  .  .  And  there  wasn't  no  love 
— for     me.      I     been     awful     thirsty, 


172       THE        MOTHER 

Richard ;  but  there  wasn't  no  water 
anywhere  in  all  the  world — for  me. 
'  Spoiled  In  the  Making.'  That's  me. 
^  God's  Bad  Break.'  Oh,  that's  me! 
I'm  not  a  natural  phenomonen  no 
more.  I'm  only  a  freak  of  nature. 
I  ain't  got  no  kick  comin'.  I  stand 
by  what  God  done.  Maybe  it  wasn't 
no  mistake ;  maybe  He  wanted  to  show 
all  the  people  in  the  world  what  would 
happen  if  He  was  in  the  habit  of  gittin^ 
careless.  Anyhow,  I  guess  He's  man 
enough  to  stand  by  the  job  He  done. 
He  made  me  what  I  am — a  freak. 
I  ain't  to  blame.  But,  oh,  my  God  I 
Richard,  it  hurts — to  be  that !  " 

The  boy  brushed  the  tears  from  the 
Dog-faced  Man's  eyes. 

"No,"  Mr.  Poddle  repeated.  "I 
ain't  afraid  to  die.  For  I  been 
thinkin' — since     I     been    lyin'    here, 


MR.      PODDLE'S     FINALE    173 

sick  and  alone — I  been  thinkin'  that 
us  mistakes  has  a  good  deal " 

The  boy  bent  close. 

"  Comin'  to  us  !  " 

The  sunlight  was  climbing  the  bed- 
post. 

"  I  been  lookin'  back,"  Mr.  Poddle 
repeated.  ''  Things  don't  look  the  same. 
You  gits  a  bird's-eye  view  of  life — from 
your  deathbed.  And  it  looks — some- 
how— different." 

There  was  a  little  space  of  silence — 
while  the  Dog-faced  Man  drew  long 
breaths :  while  his  wasted  hand  wan- 
dered restlessly  over  the  coverlet. 

"  You  got  the  little  brush,  Richard  ?  " 
he  asked,  his  voice  changing  to  a  tired 
sigh.  "  The  adornment  has  got  in  the 
way  again." 

The  boy  brushed  back  the  fallen 
hair — wiped  away  the  sweat. 


174      THE        MOTHER 

''Your  mother,"  said  Mr.  Poddle, 
faintly  smiling,  ''  does  it  better.  She's 
used — to  doing  it.  You  ain't — done  it 
— quite  right — have  you  ?  You  ain't 
got — all  them  hairs — out  of  the 
way?" 

"  Yes." 

''Not  all,"  Mr.  Poddle  gently  per- 
sisted ;  "  because  I  can't — see — very 
well." 

While  the  boy  humoured  the  fancy, 
Mr.  Poddle  lay  musing — his  hand  still 
straying  over  the  coverlet :  still  fever- 
ishly searching. 

"I  used  to  think,  Richard,"  he 
whispered,  "  that  it  ought  to  be  done — 
in  public."  He  paused — a  flash  of 
alarm  in  his  eyes.  "  Do  you  hear  me, 
Richard  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

*'  Sure  ?  " 


MR.      PODDLE'S     FINALE    175 

''  Oh,  yes  ! '' 

Mr.  Poddle  frowned — puzzled,  it  may 
be,  by  the  distant  sound,  the  muffled, 
failing  rumble,  of  his  own  voice. 

*'I  used  to  think,"  he  repeated,  dis- 
missing the  problem,  as  beyond  him, 
"that  I'd  like  to  do  it— in  public." 

The  boy  waited. 

"  Die,"  Mr.  Poddle  explained. 

A  man  went  whistling  gaily  past  the 
door.  The  merry  air,  the  buoyant  step, 
were  strangely  not  discordant ;  -nor  was 
the  sunshine,  falling  over  the  foot  of 
the  bed. 

'' '  Last  Appearance  of  a  Famous 
FreakI'"  Mr.  Poddle  elucidated,  his 
eyes  shining  with  delight — returning, 
all  at  once,  to  his  old  manner.  "  Git 
me,  Richard?"  he  continued,  excitedly. 
"  '  Fitting  Finale  !  Close  of  a  Curious 
Career!    Mr.  Henry  Poddle,  the  emi- 


176      THE         MOTHER 

nent  natural  phenomonen,  has  con- 
sented to  depart  this  life  on  the  stage 
of  Hockley's  Musee,  on  Sunday  next, 
in  the  presence  of  three  physicians,  a 
trained  nurse,  a  minister  of  the  gospel 
and  a  undertaker.  Unparalleled  En- 
tertainment !  The  management  has 
been  at  unprecedented  expense  to  git 
this  unique  feature.  Death  Defied  !  A 
Extraordinary  Educational  Exhibition ! 
Note:  Mr.  Poddle  will  do  his  best  to 
oblige  his  admirers  and  the  patrons  of 
the  house  by  dissolving  the  mortal  tie 
about  the  hour  of  ten  o'clock  ;  but  the 
management  cannot  guarantee  that  the 
exhibition  will  conclude  before  mid- 
night.' "  Mr.  Poddle  made  a  wry  face 
— with  yet  a  glint  of  humour  about  it. 
'• '  Positively,'  "  said  he,  *'  'the  last  ap- 
pearance of  this  eminent  freak.  No 
return  engagement.'  " 


MR.      PODDLE'S     FINALE    177 

Again  the  buoyant  step  in  the  hall, 
the  gaily  whistled  air — departing :  leav- 
ing an  expectant  silence. 

"Do  it/'  Mr.  Poddle  gasped,  worn 
out,  **  in  public.  But  since  I  been 
lyin*  here,"  he  added,  ''  lookin'  back,  I 
seen  the  error.  The  public,  Richard, 
has  no  feelin'.  They'd  laugh — if  I 
groaned.  I  don't  like  the  public — no 
more.  I  don't  want  to  die — in  public. 
I  want,"  he  concluded,  his  voice  falling 
to  a  thin,  exhausted  whisper,  ''only  your 
mother — and  you,  Richard — and " 

"  Did  you  say— Her  ?  " 

"  The  Lovely  One  I  " 

"  I'll  bring  her  I  "  said  the  boy,  im- 
pulsively. 

''  No,  no  !  She  wouldn't  come.  I 
been  —  in  communication  —  recent. 
And  she  writ  back.  Oh,  Richard,  she 
writ  back  !     My  heart's  broke  I  " 


178      THE        MOTHER 

The  boy  brushed  the  handkerchief 
over  the  Dog-faced  Man's  eyes. 

"  *  Are  you  muzzled/  says  she,  *  in 
dog  days  ?  '  " 

"  Don't  mind  her ! "  cried  the 
boy. 

"  In  the  eyes  of  the  law,  Richard," 
Mr.  Poddle  exclaimed,  his  eyes  flash- 
ing, "  I  ain't  no  dog  !  " 

The  boy  kissed  his  forehead — there 
was  no  other  comfort  to  offer  :  and  the 
caress  was  sufficient. 

"  I  wish,"  Mr.  Poddle  sighed,  "  that 
I  knew  how  God  will  look  at  it — to- 
night I  " 

Mr.  Poddle,  exhausted  by  speech 
and  emotion,  closed  his  eyes.  By  and 
by  the  boy  stealthily  withdrew  his 
hand  from  the  weakening  clasp.  Mr. 
Poddle   gave   no  sign  of  knowing  it. 


MR.      PODDLE'S      FINALE    179 

The  boy  slipped  away.  .  .  .  And  de- 
scending to  the  third  floor  of  the  tene- 
ment, he  came  to  the  room  where  lived 
the  Mexican  Sword  Swallower :  whom 
he  persuaded  to  return  with  him  to  Mr. 
Poddle's  bedside. 

They  paused  at  the  door.  The  woman 
drew  back. 

"  Aw,  Dick,"  she  simpered,  "  I  hate 
to  !  " 

"  Just  this  once  I  "  the  boy  pleaded. 
**  Just  to  say  it!" 

The  reply  was  a  bashful  giggle. 

*'  You  don't  have  to  mean  it,"  the 
boy  argued.     "  Just  say  it — that's  all  I  " 

They  entered.  Mr.  Poddle  was  mut- 
tering the  boy's  name — in  a  vain  effort 
to  lift  his  voice.  His  hands  were  both 
at  the  coverlet — picking,  searching : 
both  restless  in  the  advancing  sun- 
shine.    With  a  sob  of  self-reproach  the 


i8o      THE        MOTHER 

boy  ran  quickly  to  the  bedside,  took 
one  of  the  wandering  hands,  pressed  it 
to  his  lips.  And  Mr.  Poddle  sighed, 
and  lay  quiet  again. 

"  Mr.  Poddle,"  the  boy  whispered, 
"  she's  come  at  last." 

There  was  no  response. 

'*  She's  come  !  "  the  boy  repeated. 
He  gave  the  hand  he  held  to  the 
woman.  Then  he  put  his  lips  close  to 
the  dying  man's  ear.  *'  Don't  you  hear 
me  ?    She's  come  !  " 

Mr.  Poddle  opened  his  eyes.  "  Her 
— massive — proportions ! "  he  faltered. 

"  Quick  I  "  said  the  boy. 

"  Poddle,"  the  woman  lied,  "  I  love 
you  !  " 

Then  came  the  Dog-faced  Man's  one 
brief  flash  of  ecstasy — expressed  in  a 
wondrous  glance  of  3037^  and  devotion  : 
but  a  swiftly  fading  fire. 


MR.      POODLE'S      FINALE    i8i 

"  She  loves  me  !  "  he  muttered. 

"  I  do,  Poddle  !  "  the  woman  sobbed, 
willing,  now,  for  the  grotesque  decep- 
tion.    "  Yes,  I  do  !  " 

"  '  Beauty,'  "  Mr.  Poddle  gasped, 
"  '  and  the  Beast ! '  " 

They  listened  intently.  He  said  no 
more.  .  .  .  Soon  the  sunbeam  glori- 
fied the  smiling  face.  .  .  . 


WHILE  he  waited  for  his  mother 
to  come — seeking  relief  from 
the  melancholy  and  deep  mys- 
tification of  this  death — the  boy  went 
into  the  street.  The  day  was  well  dis- 
posed, the  crowded  world  in  an  amiable 
mood ;  he  perceived  no  menace — felt 
no  warning  of  catastrophe.  He  wan- 
dered far,  unobservant,  forgetful  :  the 
real    world    out    of    mind.      And    it 

chanced  that  he  lost  his  way ;  and  he 

182 


HIS        MOTHER        183 

came,  at  last,  to  that  loud,  seething 
place,  thronged  with  unquiet  faces, 
where,  even  in  the  sunshine,  sin  and 
poverty  walked  abroad,  unashamed. 
.  .  .  Rush,  crash,  joyless  laughter, 
swollen  flesh,  red  eyes,  shouting,  rags, 
disease :  flung  into  the  midst  of  it — 
transported  from  the  sweet  feeling  and 
quiet  gloom  of  the  Church  of  the 
Lifted  Cross — he  was  confused  and 
frightened.  .  .  . 

A  hand  fell  heartily  on  the  boy's 
shoulder.  ''  Hello,  there  !  "  cried  a 
big  voice.  "  Ain't  you  Millie  Blade's 
kid?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  boy  gasped. 

It  was  a  big  man — a  broad-shoul- 
dered, lusty  fellow,  muscular  and 
lithe :  good-humoured  and  dull  of 
face,   winning   of  voice   and   manner. 


i84       THE         MOTHER 

Countenance  and  voice  were  vaguely 
familiar  to  the  boy.     He  felt  no  alarm. 

''  What  the  devil  you  doing  here  ?  " 
the  man  demanded.  ''  Looking  for 
Millie  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  no  1 "  the  boy  answered,  horri- 
fied.    ''  My  mother  isn't — here  I " 

"  Well,  what  you  doing  ?  " 

''  I'm  lost." 

The  man  laughed.  He  clapped  the 
boy  on  the  back.  ''  Don't  you  be 
afraid,"  said  he,  sincerely  hearty.  "  I'll 
take  you  home.  You  know  me,  don't 
you  ?  " 

^'  Not  your  name." 

"  Anyhow,  you  remember  me,  don't 
you  ?     You've  seen  me  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

''  Well,  my  name's  Jim  Millette. 
I'm  an  acrobat.  And  I  know  you. 
Why,    sure !      I  remember   when    you 


HIS        MOTHER        185 

was  born.  Me  and  your  mother  is  old 
friends.  Soon  as  I  seen  you  I  knew 
who  you  was.  '  By  gad ! '  says  I,  '  if 
that  ain't  Millie  Slade's  kid  I '  How  is 
she,  anyhow  ?  " 

''  She's  very  well." 

"Working?'' 

"  No,"  the  boy  answered,  gravely ; 
"  my  mother  does  not  work." 

The  man  whistled. 

"  I  am  living  with  Mr.  Fithian,  the 
curate,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  sigh.  "  So 
my  mother  is  having — a  very  good — 
time." 

"  She  must  be  lonely." 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "  Oh,  no  ! " 
said  he.  "  She  is  much  happier — with- 
out me." 

"  She's  what  f  " 

"  Happier,"  the  boy  repeated, ''  with- 


i86       THE        MOTHER 

out  me.  If  she  were  not,"  he  added, 
*'  I  would  not  live  with  the  curate." 

The  man  laughed.  It  was  in  pity — 
not  in  merriment.  **  Well,  say,"  he 
said,  "  when  you  see  your  mother,  you 
tell  her  you  met  Jim  Millette  on  the 
street.  Will  you  ?  You  tell  her  Jim's 
been  —  married.  She'll  understand. 
And  I  guess  she'll  be  glad  to  know  it. 
And,  say,  I  guess  she'll  wonder  who 
it's  to.  You  tell  her  it's  the  little 
blonde  of  the  Flying  Tounsons.  She'll 
know  I  ain't  losing  anything,  any- 
how, by  standing  in  with  that  troupe. 
Tell  her  it's  all  right.  You  just  tell 
her  I  said  that  everything  was  all 
right.     Will  you  ?  " 

''  Yes,  sir." 

"You  ain't  never  been  to  a  show, 
have  you  ?  "  the  man  continued.  "  I 
thought    not.     Well,   say,    you    come 


HIS        MOTHER         187 

along  with  me.  It  ain't  late.  We'll 
see  the  after-piece  at  the  Burlesque. 
I'll  take  you  in." 

''  I  think,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  had  bet- 
ter not." 

"  Aw,  come  on  I  "  the  acrobat  urged. 
"  I'm  awful  glad  to  see  you,  Dick,"  he 
added,  putting  his  arm  around  the  boy, 
of  kind  impulse  ;  '*  and  I'd  like  to  give 
you  a  good  time — for  Millie's  sake." 

The  boy  was  still  doubtful.  "  I  had 
better  go  home,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  now,  don't  you  be  afraid  of  me, 
Dick.  I'll  take  you  home  after  the 
show.  We  got  lots  of  time.  Aw,  come 
on!" 

It  occurred  to  the  boy  that  Provi- 
dence had  ordered  events  in  answer  to 
his  prayer. 

^*  Thank  you,"  he  said. 

"  You'll  have  a  good  time,"  the  aero- 


i88       THE        MOTHER 

bat  promised.     ^'  They  say  Flannigan's 
got  a  good  show.'^ 

They  made  their  way  to  the  Bur- 
lesque. Flannigan's  Forty  Flirts  there 
held  the  boards.  ^'  Girls  !  Just  Girls  I 
Grass  Widows  and  Merry  Maids  !  No 
Nonsense  About  'Em  I  Just  Girls ! 
Girls !  "  The  foul  and  tawdry  aspect 
of  the  entrance  oppressed  the  child. 
He  felt  some  tragic  foreboding.  .  .  . 

Within  it  was  dark  to  the  boy's  eyes. 
The  air  was  hot  and  foul — stagnant, 
exhausted  :  the  stale  exhalation  of  a 
multitude  of  lungs  which  vice  was  rot- 
ting ;  tasting  of  their  very  putridity. 
A  mist  of  tobacco  smoke  filled  the 
place — was  still  rising  in  bitter,  stifling 
clouds.  There  was  a  nauseating  smell 
of  beer  and  sweat  and  disinfectants. 
The    boy's   foot   felt   the    unspeakable 


HIS        MOTHER        189 

slime  of  the  floor  :  he  tingled  with  dis- 
gust. 

An  illustrated  song  was  in  listless 
progress.  The  light,  reflected  from  the 
screen,  revealed  a  throng  of  repulsive 
faces,  stretching,  row  upon  row,  into 
the  darkness  of  the  rear,  into  the 
shadows  of  the  roof — sickly  and 
pimpled  and  bloated  flesh :  vicious 
faces,  hopeless,  vacuous,  diseased.  And 
these  were  the  faces  that  leered  and 
writhed  in  the  boy's  dreams  of  hell. 
Here,  present  and  tangible,  were  gath- 
ered all  his  terrors.  He  was  in  the 
very  midst  of  sin. 

The  song  was  ended.  The  footlights 
flashed  high.  There  was  a  burst  of 
blatant  music — a  blare  :  unfeeling  and 
discordant.  It  grated  agonizingly.  The 
boy's  sensitive  ear  rebelled.  He  shud- 
dered. .  .  .     Screen  and  curtain  disap- 


I90      THE        MOTHER 

peared.  In  the  brilliant  light  beyond, 
a  group  of  brazen  women  began  to 
cavort  and  sing.  Their  voices  were 
harsh  and  out  of  tune.  At  once  the 
faces  in  the  shadow  started  into  eager 
interest — the  eyes  flashing,  with  some 
strangely  evil  passion,  unknown  to  the 
child,  but  acutely  felt.  .  .  .  There  was 
a  shrill  shout  of  welcome — raised  by  the 
women,  without  feeling.  Down  the 
stage,  her  person  exposed,  bare-armed, 
throwing  shameless  glances,  courting 
the  sensual  stare,  grinning  as  though 
in  joyous  sympathy  with  the  evil  of 
the  place,  came  a  woman  with  blind- 
ing blonde  hair. 

It  was  the  boy^s  mother. 

"  Millie  !  '*  the  acrobat  ejaculated. 
The   boy  had  not  moved.     He  was 
staring  at  the  woman  on  the  stage.     A 


HIS        MOTHER        191 

flush  of  shame,  swiftly  departing,  had 
left  his  face  white.  Presently  he  trem- 
bled. His  lips  twitched — his  head 
drooped.  The  man  laid  a  comforting 
hand  on  his  knee.  A  tear  splashed 
upon  it. 

"  I  didn't  know  she  was  here,  Dick  !  " 
the  acrobat  whispered.  "  It's  a  shame. 
But  I  didn't  know.  And  I — I'm — 
sorry ! " 

The  boy  looked  up.  He  called  a 
smile  to  his  face.  It  was  a  brave 
pretense.     But  his  face  was  still  wan. 

''  I  think  I'd  like  to  go  home,"  he 
answered,  weakly.  "  It's — time — for 
tea." 

"  Don't  feel  bad,  Dick  !  It's  all  right. 
She's  all  right." 

"  If  you  please,"  said  the  boy,  still 
resolutely  pretending  ignorance,  "  I 
think  I'd  like  to  go — now." 


192       THE        MOTHER 

The  acrobat  waited  for  a  blast  of 
harsh  music  to  subside.  The  boy's 
mother  began  to  sing — a  voice  trivially 
engaged  :  raised  beyond  its  strength.  A 
spasm  of  distress  contorted  theboy's  face. 

''  Brace  up,  Dick  ! "  the  man  whis- 
pered.    "  Don't  take  it  so  hard." 

^'  If  you  please,"  the  boy  protested, 
*'  I'll   be    late   for   tea   if    I   don't  go 


now." 


The  acrobat  took  his  hand — guided 
him,  stumbling,  up  the  aisle  :  led  him 
into  the  fresh  air,  the  cool,  clean  sun- 
light, of  the  street.  .  .  .  There  had 
been  sudden  confusion  on  the  stage. 
The  curtain  had  fallen  with  a  rush. 
But  it  was  now  lifted,  again,  and  the 
dismal  entertainment  was  once  more 
in  noisy  course. 

It  was   now  late   in   the   afternoon. 


HIS        MOTHER        193 

The  pavement  was  thronged.  Dazed 
by  agony,  blinded  by  the  bright  light 
of  day,  the  boy  was  roughly  jostled. 
The  acrobat  drew  him  into  an  eddy  of 
the  stream.  There  the  child  offered 
his  hand — and  looked  up  with  a 
dogged  little  smile. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.    "  Thank  you." 

The  acrobat  caught  the  hand  in  a 
warm  clasp.  *'  You  don't  know  your 
way  home,  do  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  sir." 

"  Where  you  going  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  away.  There  was  a 
long  interval.  Into  the  shuffle  and 
chatter  of  the  passing  crowd  crept  the 
muffled  blare  of  the  orchestra.  The 
acrobat  still  held  the  boy's  hand  tight 
— still  anxiously  watched  him,  his  face 
overcast. 

"Box  Street?"  he  asked. 


194       THE        MOTHER 

^'  No,  sir/^ 

"  Aw,  Dick  !  think  again,"  the  acro- 
bat pleaded.  "  Come,  now !  Ain't 
you  going  to  Box  Street  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  the  boy  answered,  low. 
"  I'm  going  to  the  curate's  house, 
near  the  Church  of  the  Lifted 
Cross." 

They  were  soon  within  sight  of  the 
trees  in  the  park.  The  boy's  way  was 
then  known  to  him.  Again  he  ex- 
tended his  hand — again  smiled. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "Good- 
bye." 

The  acrobat  was  loath  to  let  the 
little  hand  go.  But  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do.  He  dropped  it,  at  last,  with 
a  quick-drawn  sigh. 

"  It'll  come  out  all  right,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

Then  the  boy  went  his  way  alone. 


HIS         MOTHER        195 

His  shoulders  were  proudly  squared — 
his  head  held  high.  .  .  . 

Meantime,  they  had  revived  Millie 
Slade.  She  was  in  the  common  dress- 
ing-room— a  littered,  infamous,  foul, 
place,  situated  below  stage.  Behind 
her  the  gas  flared  and  screamed.  Still 
in  her  panderous  disguise,  within  hear- 
ing of  the  rasping  music  and  the 
tramp  of  the  dance,  within  hearing 
of  the  coarse  applause,  this  tender 
mother  sat  alone,  unconscious  of  evil 
— uncontaminated,  herself  kept  holy 
by  her  motherhood,  lifted  by  her  love 
from  the  touch  of  sin.  To  her  all  the 
world  was  a  temple,  undefiled,  where- 
in she  worshipped,  wherein  the  child 
was  a  Presence,  purifying  every 
place. 

She  had  no  strength  left  for  tragic 


196       THE        MOTHER 

behaviour.  She  sat  limp,  shedding 
weak  tears,  whimpering,  tearing  at  her 
finger  nails. 

*'  I'm  found  out  I "  she  moaned. 
"  Oh,  my  God !  He'll  never  love  me 
no  more ! " 

A  woman  entered  in  haste. 

"You  got  it,  Aggie?"  the  mother 
asked. 

"Yes,  dear.  Now,  you  just  drink 
this,  and  you'll  feel  better." 

"  I  don't  want  it — now." 

"  Aw,  now,  you  drink  it !  Poor 
dear !     It'll  do  you  lots  of  good." 

"  He  wouldn't  want  me  to." 

"  Aw,  he  won't  know.  And  you 
need  it,  dear.     Do  drink  it !  " 

"  No,  Aggie,"  said  the  mother.  "  It 
don't  matter  that  he  don't  know.  I 
just  don't  want  it.  I  canH  do  what  he 
wouldn't  like  me  to." 


HIS        MOTHER        197 

The  glass  was  put  aside.  And  Aggie 
sat  beside  the  mother,  and  drew  her 
head  to  a  sympathetic  breast. 

'^  Don't  cry  ! "  she  whispered.  "  Oh, 
Millie,  don't  cry  !  " 

"  Oh,"  the  woman  whimpered, 
''  he'll  think  me  an  ugly  thing,  Aggie. 
He'll  think  me  a  skinny  thing.  If  I'd 
only  got  here  in  time,  if  I'd  only 
looked  right,  he  might  have  loved  me 
still.  But  he  won't  love  me  no  more — 
after  to-day ! " 

'^Hush,  Millie!  He's  only  a  kid. 
He  don't  know  nothing  about — such 
things." 

^'  Only  a  kid,"  said  the  mother,  ac- 
cording to  the  perverted  experience  of 
her  life,  *'  but  still  a  man  I  " 

"  He  wouldn't  care." 

"  They  all  care  !  " 

Indeed,  this  was  her  view ;  and  by 


198       THE        MOTHER 

her  knowledge  of  the  world  she 
spoke. 

''  Not  him,"  said  Aggie. 

The  mother  was  infinitely  distressed. 
"  Oh,"  she  moaned,  ''  if  I'd  only  had 
time  to  pad  1  " 

This  was  the  greater  tragedy  of  her 
situation  :  that  she  misunderstood. 


IT  was  Sunday  evening.  Evil- 
weather  threatened.  The  broad 
window  of  top  floor  rear  looked 
out  upon  a  lowering  sky — everywhere 
gray  and  thick  :  turning  black  beyond 
the  distant  hills.  An  hour  ago  the  De- 
partment wagon  had  rattled  away  with 
the  body  of  Mr.  Poddle ;  and  with  the 
cheerfully  blasphemous  directions,  the 
tramp  of  feet,  the  jocular  comment,  as 

the  box  was  carried  down  the  narrow 
199 


2CX)      THE        MOTHER 

stair,  the  last  distraction  had  departed. 
The  boy's  mother  was  left  undisturbed 
to  prepare  for  the  crucial  moments  in 
the  park. 

She  was  now  nervously  engaged  be- 
fore her  looking-glass.  All  the  tools 
of  her  trade  lay  at  hand.  A  momen- 
tous problem  confronted  her.  The 
child  must  be  won  back.  He  must 
be  convinced  of  her  worth.  Therefore 
she  must  be  beautiful.  He  thought 
her  pretty.  She  would  be  pretty.  But 
how  impress  him?  By  what  appeal? 
The  pathetic?  the  tenderly  winsome? 
the  gay  ?  She  would  be  gay.  Marvel- 
lous lies  occurred  to  her — a  multitude 
of  them :  there  was  no  end  to  her  fer- 
tility in  deception.  And  she  would 
excite  his  jealousy.  Upon  that  feel- 
ing she  would  play.  She  would  blow 
hot ;  she  would  blow  cold.     She  would 


NEARING    THE    SEA     201 

reduce  him  to  agony — the  most  poign- 
ant agony  he  had  ever  suffered.  Then 
she  would  win  him. 

To  this  end,  acting  according  to  the 
enlightenment  of  her  kind,  she  plied  her 
pencil  and  puffs  ;  and  when,  at  last,  she 
stood  before  the  mirror,  new  gowned, 
beautiful  after  the  conventions  of  her 
kind,  blind  to  the  ghastliness  of  it,  ig- 
norant of  the  secret  of  her  strength, 
she  had  a  triumphant  consciousness  of 
power. 

"  He^U  love  me,"  she  thought,  with 
a  snap  of  the  teeth.     *'  He's  got  to  I  " 

Jim  Millette  knocked — and  pushed 
the  door  ajar,  and  diffidently  intruded 
his  head. 

"  Hello,  Jim  ! "  she  cried.  "  Come 
in!" 

The  man  would  not  enter.    "  I  can't, 


202      THE        MOTHER 

Millie,"  he  faltered.  '*  I  just  got  a 
minute." 

*'  Oh,  come  on  in  I "  said  she,  con- 
temptuously. ^'  Come  in  and  tell  me 
about  it.  What  did  you  do  it  for, 
Jim?  You  got  good  and  even,  didn't 
you  ?  Eh,  Jim  ?  "  she  taunted.  "  You 
got  even ! " 

"It  wasn't  that,  Millie,"  he  pro- 
tested. 

"  Oh,  wasn't  it  ?  "  she  shrilled. 

"  No,  it  wasn't,  Millie.  I  didn't  have 
no  grudge  against  you." 

"Then  what  was  it?  Come  in  and 
tell  me !  "  she  laughed.  "  You  dassn't, 
Jim  !  You're  afraid  !  Come  in,"  she 
flashed,  "  and  I'll  make  you  lick  my 
shoes  !  And  when  you're  crawling  on 
the  floor,  Jim,  like  a  slimy  dog,  I'll 
kick  you  out.  Hear  me,  you  pup? 
What    you    take    my   child   in   there 


NEARING     THE    SEA     203 

for?"  she  cried.  ''Hear  me?  Aw, 
you  pup  I "  she  snarled.  ''  You're 
afraid  to  come  in  !  " 

"Don't  go  on,  Millie,"  he  warned 
her.  ''  Don't  you  go  on  like  that. 
Maybe  I  mil  come  in.  And  if  I  do, 
my  girl,  it  won't  be  me  that'll  be 
lickin'  shoes.     It  might  be  you  !  " 

"  Me !  "  she  scorned.  "  You  ain't 
got  no  hold  on  me  no  more.  Come 
in  and  try  it !  " 

The  man  hesitated. 

"  Come  on  !  "  she  taunted. 

"  I  ain't  coming  in,  Millie,"  he  an- 
swered. ''  I  didn't  come  up  to  come 
in.  I  just  come  up  to  tell  you  I  was 
sorry." 

She  laughed. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  was  there, 
Millie,"  the  man  continued.  ''If  I'd 
knowed  you  was  with  the  Forty  Flirts, 


204      THE        MOTHER 

I  wouldn't  have  took  the  boy  there. 
And  I  come  up  to  tell  you  so." 

Overcome  by  a  sudden  and  agonizing 
recollection  of  the  scene,  she  put  her 
hands  to  her  face. 

'^  And  I  come  up  to  tell  you  some- 
thing else,"  the  acrobat  continued, 
speaking  gently.  ^'  I  tell  you,  Millie, 
you  better  look  out.  If  you  ain't  care- 
ful, you'll  lose  him  for  good.  He  took 
it  hard,  Millie.  Hard !  It  broke  the 
little  fellow  all  up.  It  hurt  him — 
awful ! " 

She  began  to  walk  the  floor.  In  the 
room  the  light  was  failing.  It  was 
growing  dark — an  angry  portent — over 
the  roofs  of  the  opposite  city. 

"  Do  you  want  him  back  ?  "  the  man 
asked. 

"  Want  him  back  !  "  she  cried. 


NEARING    THE    SEA     205 

"  Then/^  said  he,  his  voice  soft, 
grave,  '*  take  care  ! '' 

''Want  him  back?"  she  repeated, 
beginning,  now,  by  habit,  to  tear  at 
her  nails.  "  I  got  to  have  him  back  ! 
He's  mine,  ain't  he?  Didn't  I  bear 
him  ?  Didn't  I  nurse  him  ?  Wasn't  it 
me  that — that — made  him?  He's  my 
kid,  I  tell  you — mine !  And  I  want 
him  back  !     Oh,  I  want  him  so  !  " 

The  man  entered;  but  the  woman 
seemed  not  to  know  it.  He  regarded 
her  compassionately. 

"  That  there  curate  ain't  got  no  right 
to  him,"  she  complained.  ''  He  didn't 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  boy.  It 
was  only  me  and  Dick.  What's  he 
sneaking  around  here  for — taking 
Dick's  boy  away?  The  boy's  half 
mine  and  half  Dick's.  The  curate 
ain't  got  no  share.     And  now  Dick's 


2o6      THE        MOTHER 

dead — and  he's  all  mine  I  The  curate 
ain't  got  nothing  to  do  with  it.  We 
don't  want  no  curate  here.  I  raised 
that  boy  for  myself.  I  didn't  do  it  to 
give  him  to  no  curate.  What  right's 
he  got  coming  around  here — getting  a 
boy  he  didn't  have  no  pain  to  bear  or 
trouble  to  raise  ?  I  tell  you  I  got  that 
boy.     He's  mine— and  I  want  him  !  " 

*^  But  you  give  the  boy  to  the  curate, 
Millie  I  " 

"No,  I  didn't!"  she  lied.  "He 
took  the  boy.  He  come  sneaking 
around  here  making  trouble.  /  didn't 
give  him  no  boy.  And  I  want  him 
back,"  she  screamed,  in  a  gust  of  pas- 
sion.    "  I  want  my  boy  back  1 " 

A  rumble  of  thunder — failing,  far  off 
— came  from  the  sea. 

"  Millie,"  the  acrobat  persisted,  "  you 
said  you  wasn't  fit  to  bring  him  up." 


NEARING    THE     SEA     207 

"  I  ain't,"  she  snapped.  "  But  I 
don't  care.  He's  mine — and  I'll  have 
him." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Jim,"  the  woman  said,  now  quiet, 
laying  her  hands  on  the  acrobat's 
shoulders,  looking  steadily  into  his 
eyes,  ''that  boy's  mine.  I  want  him — 
I  want  him — back.  But  I  don't  want 
him  if  he  don't  love  me.  And  if  I  can't 
have  him — if  I  can't  have  him " 

"  Millie  I  " 

"I'll  be  all  alone,  Jim— and  I'll 
want " 

He  caught  her  hands.  "  Me  ?  "  he 
asked.     ''  Will  you  want  me  ?  " 

''  I  don't  know." 

''  Millie,"  he  said,  speaking  hur- 
riedly, ^^wonH  you  want  me?  I've 
took  up  with  the  little  Tounson  blonde. 
But    she   wouldn't    care.     You    know 


2o8      THE        MOTHER 

how  it  goes,  Millie.  It's  only  for  busi- 
ness. She  and  me  team  up.  That's 
all.  She  wouldn't  care.  And  if  you 
want  me — if  you  want  me,  Millie, 
straight  and  regular,  for  better  or  for 
worse — if  you  want  me  that  way, 
Millie " 

"  Don't,  Jim  !  " 

He  let  her  hands  fall — and  drew 
away.  ^'  I  love  you  too  much,"  he 
said,  "  to  butt  in  now.  But  if  the  boy 
goes  back  on  you,  Millie,  I'll  come — 
again.  You'll  need  me  then — and 
that's  why  I'll  come.  I  don't  want 
him  to  go  back  on  you.  I  want  him 
to  love  you  still.  It's  because  of  the 
way  you  love  him  that  I  love  you — in 
the  way  I  do.  It  ain't  easy  for  me  to 
say  this.  It  ain't  easy  for  me  to  want 
to  give  you  up.  But  you're  that  kind 
of  a  woman,  Millie.     You're  that  kind 


NEARING    THE    SEA     209 

— since  you  got  the  boy.  I  want  to 
give  you  up.  You'd  be  better  off  with 
him.  You're — you're — holier — when 
you're  with  that  child.  You'd  break 
your  poor  heart  without  that  boy  of 
yours.  And  I  want  you  to  have  him 
— to  love  him — to  be  loved  by  him. 
If  he  comes  back,  you'll  not  see  me 
again.  I've  lived  a  life  that  makes  me 
— not  fit — to  be  with  no  child  like 
him.  But  so  help  me  God-I  "  the  man 
passionately  declared,  *'  I  hope  he  don't 
turn  you  down  !  " 

"  You're  all  right,  Jim  I  "  she  sobbed. 
You're  all  right !  " 

"  I'm  going  now,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  But  I  got  one  more  thing  to  say. 
Don't  fool  that  boy  !  " 

She  looked  up. 

''  Don't  fool  him,"  the  man  repeated. 
"  You'll  lose  him  if  you  do." 


2IO      THE        MOTHER 

"  Not  fool  him  ?     It's  so  easy,  Jim  !  " 
"  Ah,  Millie,"  he  said,  with  a  hope- 
less gesture,  "  you're  blind.     You  don't 
know  your  own  child.     You're  blind — 
you're  just  blind  !  " 

"  What  you  mean,  Jim  ?  "  she  de- 
manded. 

''  You  don't  know  what  he  loves  you 
for." 

^'  What  does  he  love  me  for  ?  " 
The   man   was   at  the   door.     ^*  Be- 
cause," he  answered,  turning,  ''  you're 
his  mother ! " 

It  was  not  yet  nine  o'clock.  The  boy 
would  still  be  in  the  church.  She  must 
not  yet  set  out  for  the  park.  So  she 
lighted  the  lamp.  For  a  time  she  posed 
and  grimaced  before  the  mirror.  When 
she  was  perfect  in  the  part,  she  sat  in 
the  rocking-chair  at  the  broad  window, 


NEARING    THE    SEA     211 

there  to  rehearse  the  deceptions  it  was 
in  her  mind  to  practice.  But  while  she 
watched  the  threatening  shadows 
gather,  the  lights  on  the  river  flash  into 
life  and  go  drifting  aimlessly  away,  her 
mind  strayed  from  this  purpose,  her 
willful  heart  throbbed  with  sweeter  feel- 
ing— his  childish  voice,  the  depths  of 
his  eyes,  the  grateful  weight  of  his  head 
upon  her  bosom.  Why  had  he  loved 
her  ?  Because  she  was  his  mother !  A 
forgotten  perception  returned  to  illu- 
minate her  way — a  perception,  never 
before  reduced  to  formal  terms,  that  her 
virtue,  her  motherly  tenderness,  were 
infinitely  more  appealing  to  him  than 
the  sum  of  her  other  attractions. 

She  started  from  the  chair — her 
breast  heaving  with  despairing  alarm. 
Again  she  stood  before  the  mirror — 
staring  with  new-opened  eyes  at  the 


212       THE         MOTHER 

painted  face,  the  gaudy  gown  :  and  by 
these  things  she  was  now  horrified. 

"  He  won't  love  me  !  "  she  thought. 
"  Not  this  way.     He — he — couldn't !  " 

It  struck  the  hour. 

*'  Nine  o'clock  !  "  she  cried.     "  I  got 
to  do  something  !  " 

She  looked  helplessly  about  the  room. 
Why  had  he  loved  her  ?  Because  she 
was  his  mother !  She  would  be  his 
mother — nothing  more:  just  his 
mother.  She  would  go  to  him  with 
that  appeal.  She  would  not  seek  to 
win  him.  She  would  but  tell  him  that 
she  was  his  mother.  She  would  be  his 
mother — true  and  tender  and  holy. 
He  would  not  resist  her  plea.  .  .  . 
This  determined,  she  acted  resolutely 
and  in  haste :  she  stripped  off  the 
gown,  flung  it  on  the  floor,  kicked  the 
silken  heap  under  the  bed  ;  she  washed 


1/^ 


NEARING    THE    SEA     213 

the  paint  from  her  face,  modestly  laid 
her  hair,  robed  herself  anew.  And 
when  again,  with  these  new,  seeing 
eyes,  she  looked  into  the  glass,  she 
found  that  she  was  young,  unspoiled — 
still  lovely ;  a  sweetly  wistful  woman, 
whom  he  resembled.  Moreover,  there 
came  to  transform  her,  suddenly,  glo- 
riously, a  revelation  :  that  of  the  spirit- 
ual significance  of  her  motherhood. 

"  Thank  God  ! ''  she  thought,  uplifted 
by  this  vision.  ''  Oh,  thank  God  !  I'm 
like  them  other  people.  Fm  fit  to 
bring  him  up  I  " 

It  thundered  ominously. 


SHE  sat  waiting  for  him  at  the 
bench  by  the  lilac  bush.  He  was 
late,  she  thought — strangely  late. 
She  wondered  why.  It  was  dark.  The 
night  was  close  and  hot.  There  was  no 
breath  of  air  stirring  in  the  park. 
From  time  to  time  the  lightning  flashed. 
In  fast  lessening  intervals  came  the 
thunder.  Presently  she  caught  ear  of 
his  step  on  the  pavement — still  distant : 
approaching,  not  from  the  church,  but 
214 


THE    LAST    APPEAL     215 

from  the  direction  of  the  curate's 
home. 

''  And  he's  not  running ! "  she 
thought,  quick  to  take  alarm. 

They  were  inexplicable — these  lag- 
ging feet.  He  had  never  before  daw- 
dled on  the  way.  Her  alarm  increased. 
She  waited  anxiously — until,  with  eyes 
downcast,  he  stood  before  her. 

''  Richard  !  "  she  tenderly  said. 

*'  I'm  here,  mother,"  he  .answered  ; 
but  he  did  not  look  at  her. 

She  put  her  arms  around  him. 
"Your  mother,"  she  whispered,  while 
she  kissed  him,  ''  is  glad — to  feel  you — 
lying  here." 

He  lay  quiet  against  her — his  face 
on  her  bosom.  She  was  thrilled  by 
this  sweet  pressure. 

"  Have  you  been  happy  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No." 


2i6      THE        MOTHER 

"  Nor  I,  dear  I  " 

He  turned  his  face — not  to  her :  to 
the  flaming  cross  above  the  church. 
She  had  invited  a  question.  But  he 
made  no  response. 

*'  Nor  I,"  she  repeated. 

Still  he  gazed  at  the  cross.  It  was 
shining  in  a  black  cloud — high  in  the 
sky.     She  felt  him  tremble. 

''  Hold  me  tight  I  "  he  said. 

She  drew  him  to  her — glad  to  have 
him  ask  her  to  :  having  no  disquieting 
question. 

"  Tighter  !  "  he  implored. 

She  rocked  him.  "  Hush,  dear  I  '* 
she  crooned.  ^'  You're  safe — with  your 
mother.     What  frightens  you  ?  " 

''  The  cross  !  "  he  sobbed. 

God  knows !  'twas  a  pity  that  his 
childish  heart  misinterpreted  the  mes- 
sage of  the  cross — changing  his  loving 


THE     LAST    APPEAL     217 

purpose  into  sin.     But  the  misinterpre- 
tation was  not  forever  to  endure.  .  .  . 


The  wind  began  to  stir  the  leaves 
— tentative  gusts :  swirling  eagerly 
through  the  park.  There  was  a  flash 
— an  instant  clap  of  thunder,  breaking 
overhead,  rumbling  angrily  away.  Two 
men  ran  past.  Great  drops  of  rain 
splashed  on  the  pavement. 

"  Let  us  go  home,"  the  boy.  said. 

"  Not  yet !  "  she  protested.  "  Oh, 
not  yet ! " 

He  escaped  from  her  arms. 

''  Don't  go,  Richard  !  "  she  whim- 
pered. "  Please  don't,  dear  !  Not  yet. 
I — I'm — oh,  I'm  not  ready  to  say  good- 
night.    Not  yet ! " 

He  took  her  hand.  ^'  Come,  mother  I  '^ 
he  said. 

"  Not  yet  I '' 


2i8       THE        MOTHER 

He  dropped  her  hand — sprang  away 
from  her  with  a  startled  little  cry. 
"  Oh,  mother,"  he  moaned,  *'  don't  you 
want  me?  " 

''  Home  ? "  she  asked,  blankly. 
"  Home — with  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother  !  Let  me  go  home. 
Quick  I  Let  us  go.  .  .  .  The  curate 
says  I  know  best.  I  went  straight 
to  him — yesterday — and  told  him.  And 
he  said  I  w^as  wiser  than  he.  .  .  .  And 
I  said  good-bye.  Don't  send  me  back. 
For,  oh,  I  want  to  go  home — with 
you !  '^ 

She  opened  her  arms.  At  that  mo- 
ment a  brilliant  flash  of  lightning  illu- 
minated the  world.  For  the  first  time 
the  child  caught  sight  of  her  face— the 
sweet,  real  face  of  his  mother :  now 
radiant,  touched  by  the  finger  of  the 
Good  God  Himself. 


THE     LAST     APPEAL     219 

"  Is  it  you  ?  '^  he  whispered. 

."  I  am  your  mother/' 

He  leaped  into  her  arms — found  her 
wet  eyes  with  his  lips.  "  Mother  I  "  he 
cried. 

"  My  son  I "  she  said. 

He  turned  again  to  the  flaming  cross 
— a  little  smile  of  defiance  upon  his 
lips.  But  the  defiance  passed  swiftly  : 
for  it  was  then  revealed  to  him  that 
his  mother  was  good  ;  and  he  knew 
that  what  the  cross  signified  would 
continue  with  him,  wherever  he  went, 
that  goodness  and  peace  might  abide 
within  his  heart.  Hand  in  hand, 
while  the  thunder  still  rolled  and  the 
rain  came  driving  with  the  wind,  they 
hurried  away  towards  the  Box  Street 
tenement.  .  .  . 

Let  them  go  I    Why  not  ?     Let  them 


220      THE        MOTHER 

depart  into  their  world  I  It  needs  them. 
They  will  glorify  it.  Nor  will  they  suf- 
fer loss.  Let  them  go  I  Love  flourishes 
in  the  garden  of  the  world  we  know. 
Virtue  is  forever  in  bloom.  Let  them 
go  to  their  place  I  Why  should  we  wish 
to  deprive  the  unsightly  wilderness  of 
its  flowers  ?  Let  the  tenderness  of  this 
mother  and  son  continue  to  grace  itl 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


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